


Imprimatur, Weave, Covenant

by CaveDwellers



Series: Every Breath in Defiance [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Come on a journey with me children, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hello I'm here to be Contrary, M/M, Pining, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:48:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 33,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25731616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaveDwellers/pseuds/CaveDwellers
Summary: It has never been a matter of reciprocation, or lack thereof. It has always been a question of whether they will allow themselves to act on it. Yet now that the allowance is given, Gimli and Legolas are discovering that century-old habits are not so easily changed.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Series: Every Breath in Defiance [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1843123
Comments: 57
Kudos: 128





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after the first fic in this series, Lest We Burden Our Weary Hearts, but you do not have to do that in order to read/enjoy this one, I'll fill you in on what you need to know as we go along.
> 
> I was trying for an "Eat, Pray, Love" sort of title style. Don't really know if that worked but alas, we live and learn.
> 
> I welcome feedback of any sort! Please feel empowered to let me know what you think :)

Gimli was last in Ithilien two years ago. He stayed less than a week, but even that is long enough to know that the colony has not changed much since. The air is still sweet with the scent of herbs and the manufacturing of essential oils, the buildings still ancient mannish masonry repaired by living, interwoven vines. The geography is still jagged, and the rivers still swift as they fly downhill. The population still constitutes largely of elves and men, with a small contingency of dwarves from Aglarond, Gimli's friend Mírn at the head. Despite that, there is something about returning here that feels different.

It is probably because, this time, he is not planning on returning to Aglarond.

"The Grey Havens have emptied along with Lothlorien and Rivendell; there are no elven shipwrights left on this side of the sea," Legolas explains as they come upon the only thing about Ithilien that _has_ changed, since Gimli's last visit: a huge, temporary pavilion. Three living trees and the corner of a hybridized building serve as structural posts while vines create an inadvertent canopy thirty feet overhead. Gimli can tell this is new because the plants' tendrils are still gripping thin cords of braided grasses, which are designed to guide the vines in their first few weeks of growth and then rot away, leaving only the crisscrossing network of living flora behind. The light in the pavilion is faintly green, and the air smells of sawdust. "Thankfully, there are men who understand enough of elven stylings to adapt what they know to help in this venture."

Indeed, there is a team of seven individuals working within the pavilion, five men and two elves. They are taking measurements, planing wood, and consulting schematics. At the center of the pavilion is the skeletal structure of what will one day be a single-mast sailboat—a sloop, as Legolas told him on the ride from Minas Tirith to Ithilien. Aside from a handful of remarks about the logistics of this boat-making venture, the trip had been unnervingly quiet, punctuated by silences in which Legolas stared to the west far too long before bodily shaking himself and returning to… well, not quite normal. Nothing between them felt normalized right now. Perhaps it was because they were leaving Aragorn's memorial service, and his recent death still hung heavy over their heads like a storm cloud.

"The vessel doesnae have to be of elven make to reach Valinor?" asks Gimli as he gazes upon it. Though they are standing next to one another, they have reflexively put enough room for a third person between them.

The unspoken question "Now what?" is still ringing in Gimli's ears. Deciding the political climate between your races is finally amicable enough to weather an affection you have denied yourselves for one hundred and twenty-two years is one thing, and deciding to quit your life here on Middle-Earth and sail to the Undying Lands is one more, but willfully breaking the platonic habits of a lifetime is something else entirely. It is… far more difficult than Gimli could have ever imagined.

Legolas grins wryly. "If it did, I would have to resign myself to never leaving Arda at all, for I do not have a penchant for the craft."

"Maybe you would in another hundred years," a woman quips as she approaches. Her face is weathered, open and friendly, and she has the sturdy, muscular build of a lifetime of physicality. "Come to check in on our progress, Lord Legolas?"

"Gimli, this is Hilda, the master shipwright in charge of the project." Then, after introducing Gimli as the Lord of Aglarond, Legolas says, "I confess I am curious as to how things are progressing, but this visit is primarily for Gimli's sake. While I am here, however: do you have all the supplies you need?"

"We are going to need custom bolts and fasteners to reinforce the frame," says Hilda. "Preferably forged of steel. Someone mentioned a dwarf named Mírn, but—"

"Mírn is a master stonemason, not a blacksmith," Gimli interrupts. "They know the basics, as all dwarves do, but for custom orders ye are better off engaging a smith who knows more."

" _Mellon_ , are you volunteering?" asks Legolas archly.

"I am a politician by trade," says Gimli, giving the elf a sidelong glance. Surely Ithilien has its own dedicated blacksmith who can take the order? "But I still know more than Mírn."

"Enough to manage such an order?" wonders Legolas as he meets Gimli's gaze.

He is trying to supply an objective that might give Gimli a sense of purpose, Gimli realizes. There are three months until the boat is finished, and Gimli has a fully trained heir in his nephew, Ghríc, who could readily assume control of Aglarond when he left. Conversely, Legolas will be spending the next three months training the next Lord of Ithilien while simultaneously keeping the colony running. What is Gimli going to do during that time, if not something like this? Dwarves are industrious folk; they like to be kept busy.

In this moment, Legolas seems to know that even better than Gimli himself.

"Aye, I could handle it," he concurs.

His companion smiles, gentle and bright, and warmth pulses in Gimli's chest. Even if doing so benefited him not at all, he thinks he would have volunteered for this task anyway, just to see that smile.

Just then he remembers that they have decided to _act_ on these feelings, not simply languish in feeling them, and his pulse jumps as it has not since he was an adolescent. His heart starts thudding loudly in his ears, and his palms suddenly feel clammy. Such a visceral reaction to even the concept abruptly reminds Gimli that it has been well over a century since he has acted on any sort of romantic inclinations. Will he remember how?

Something of his reaction must have translated to his face or body language, because Legolas' demeanor changes. "I have perfect confidence in your abilities, _mellon-nîn,"_ he says, and Gimli knows he is not simply talking about making custom braces and fasteners. They have spoken to one another through layers of subtext for far too many decades for him not to hear it now.

This instance is easier to read than most. Legolas wields the Sindarin word for friend as though it is a tender endearment, and he never uses it for anyone else. In a lifetime of stringent restraint, that was one of their only concessions.

Hilda, of course, is none the wiser. "Excellent," she says, brisk and pleased with the results. "If you have a moment right now, Lord Gimli, I can show you the sketches of what we need."

"Of course," Gimli says, redirecting his attention from his life's most treasured connection. "No time like the present."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> mellon, mellon-nîn = Sindarin = friend, my friend respectively
> 
> All of the descriptions of Aglarond and Ithilien are not canon, I just ripped them from Weary Hearts.


	2. Chapter 2

It has not always been so, but these days Gimli enjoys puffing on his pipe and watching the colors of the setting sun steep across the horizon. He delights in how the fireball’s pink and orange mingle with the deepening blues and blacks of the night sky as it descends. It is a simple melody played by a hundred different artists, all with their own stylings for the tune: recognizable, and yet new to behold every time. When Gimli is in Aglarond, he does not see the sunset as often as he would like, but whenever he is in Ithilien he makes a point of watching it as often as weather permits.

Legolas does not care as much for sunsets as the starlight they give way to, but the elf has nonetheless taken to joining him in the golden hours as they fade to dusk and beyond. He cradles a cup of green tea in his palms while Gimli blows smoke rings, sitting far enough away to appear platonic. Just two world-weary Lords gazing out at the earth they helped to save.

By this point, they have perfected the art of companionable silence. There is no pressure to find something to say, no obligation to entertain. Wordlessness is easier, sometimes, because at least then they are not omitting anything. There is an authenticity to sitting together and watching the world fall asleep, not wanting or expecting to be anything other than what they are.

Whatever that happens to be.

They have not spoken further about the decision they made in the aftermath of Aragorn's memorial service. Though it has been less than two weeks since that day, it already feels as though that conversation happened months ago. There are moments in which Gimli wonders if they were too hasty—if, after more than a century, they were somehow still not ready for something beyond what they have always done. Apprehension waxes and wanes within him like the tide; he alternates between wanting to march up to Legolas and show just how keenly he wants this, and being stayed by a towering mountain of nerves that he has not felt since the experimental days of his youth.

He is not having second thoughts. Gimli has known how he feels about Legolas far too long to call that into question. Rather, he is so powerfully full of yearning that it paralyzes him. If he is not certain he can be the perfect partner for someone he values this much, then is it worth attempting at all?

Though they have consulted one another on many things over the years, Gimli does not know how to broach a topic like this with Legolas. He is not even certain he can articulate his fear aloud without inadvertently proving this was a mistake.

Ironic, that Gimli Silvertongue should feel this inarticulate, but that makes it no less true.

Most evenings, these are the thoughts that roll around and around in Gimli's head as he watches the deepening of the sky. It is no better when Legolas joins him, as he has tonight, because then a prickling sense of urgency settles under his skin. If they have already decided this is what they want, then what is he waiting for? Is a part of him afraid Legolas will change his mind, if asked to act upon this decision?

Well, no. Gimli knows better than to think _that_ , at any rate. After a lifetime of covert conversations-beneath-conversations and a handful of small, yet deeply intimate exceptions—the fact the idea for Gimli to also sail came from Legolas himself—Gimli knows he is not alone in feeling this way. Reciprocation has never been the problem. Even now, with most of the red in his hair replaced by silver, and his movements slower as his body exchanges the sprightliness and flexibility of youth for the hardened joints and increased strength of dwarven elderliness, Gimli knows his companion has remained as steadfast as he was that afternoon in Fangorn Forest so long ago. They had chosen their people and the communities they would build over one another that day, and in every subsequent meeting as they leveraged their political power to lay down the groundwork for healing the relationship between their races, but that did not make the sentiment any less real.

Gimli does not regret giving so much of his life to help Aglarond flourish. It is a diverse colony of dwarves, men, hobbits and elves, a bastion of progress and experimentation with a strong sense of community. He is exceedingly proud of what he has made, and humbled that so many trusted him to lead them to this unorthodox end. He knows he has made matters of friendship and even love easier for the next generation, and he is glad he could do that for them.

Yet he is only just getting around to giving his other half the attention he deserves—and, what is more, he is _squandering_ that time by waffling over whether or not he could do it well. When one is a dwarf of two-hundred-and-sixty-two years, there is no time for such things!

Legolas deserves the best he has to offer, but what if that opportunity has already long since passed on? Is it truly fair to offer something mediocre and expect him to be happy with it?

When his companion shifts, Gimli does not startle, precisely. He knows Legolas is close by, as he has been for—oh, Mahal's beard, the sky is fully dark, so it must be hours now. Legolas shakes himself as though to ward off sleepiness, despite the fact elves do not need sleep as mortals do, and sets his empty cup aside. Then he deliberately stretches his long legs in Gimli's direction and crosses them at the ankles. "You seem troubled, _mellon."_

"I am, aye," he admits as he looks between their feet. They are not touching, but they would if Gimli were to also stretch out.

"Do you care to speak to it, or would you prefer to keep your own counsel?"

The query is phrased casually enough, spoken just above the elves beginning to sing to the stars. They are in the garden to the side of the Great House, where Ithilien's diplomacy is conducted. It also doubles as Legolas' residence; he has three rooms and a private garden in the back of the building. This particular garden, however, is part of the House's public amenities. They are actually on benches meant for assistants and courtiers waiting for their dignitaries to finish up their business under the nearby pergola. The pergola itself is lavishly landscaped, and the plant life is so dense that it is almost fully enclosed, an inadvertent room. All of that grandeur makes for poor stargazing, though, and Gimli dare not presume he is invited to Legolas' personal quarters, or extend the invitation to his own guest house down the road from here.

Besides, the Great House is on a hillside that overlooks Ithilien's city center, and the slope floats the elfsong up to dance among the plants. It is pleasant here.

"I would ask you something," Gimli says. Neither of them have a candle or lantern, but between Gimli's dark-vision and Legolas' familiarity with this space neither of them need it.

"At this point I hardly think you need permission," says Legolas, though Gimli can hear the curiosity in his voice.

"Aye, but this matter is too often answered by nonsense elven riddles."

Legolas' eyebrows arch as he is torn between intrigue and amusement. "Then I shall strive to speak as plainly as I may, _mellon-nîn,"_ he replies. "What question deserves such a dubious introduction?"

"Out of every element of nature, why are elves so enraptured by the stars?"

This is clearly not what Legolas was expecting to hear. For a moment he just blinks, stunned. Then he laughs and teases, "Has the concept nagged you so, all these years?"

"I havenae lost sleep to it, if that is what you are implying," Gimli grumbles, much to the elf's enjoyment. "It is merely something I have wondered. Your people love trees and waterways and green things plenty, but every one of you loves those wee dots more than all the rest combined."

"Some Silvans might take issue with that," Legolas mutters, though the statement is without ire. He shifts his weight so he is leaning one hand on the empty space beside him on his bench, and glances up to the sky. There are a few streaks of silver-lit clouds, but otherwise it is clear. As he does this, the mirth seeps from his demeanor, replaced by thoughtfulness. "I believe it is their permanence. The stars have always been there; they predate us."

"So does the earth," Gimli points out. "Yet I dinnae see any elves coveting mountains and stone."

"A mountain can be readily altered, if you have the right tools and willing hands." Legolas nods to Gimli. "What alters the stars?"

"You see a kinship with them." From this vantage, it is so obvious.

"We shall both remain," Legolas agrees, tilting his head back once more, "Until the breaking of the world, and likely beyond."

"I suppose there a comfort in that constancy," Gimli muses.

The elf's gaze falls back to earth. "At times, yes, but so too is there stagnancy and isolation." At Gimli's look of surprise, Legolas merely says, "I vowed to speak plainly."

That he did.

Legolas tilts his head as he regards Gimli, causing a length of hair to fall from one shoulder, strands of white-gold glowing in the cold starlight. "Of all the times you might have asked about this, why now?" he wonders.

It is a fair question, and it deserves a fair answer. The problem is, of course, is that speaking plainly of some matters is easier than others.

"I suppose my curiosity," Gimli says carefully, "Is whether you see permanence or stagnation first, when you look upon them. Is there a comfort in knowing they cannae be altered?"

The sound Legolas makes in the back of his throat lets Gimli know he kens what is truly being asked. He also takes it seriously, considering how long it takes him to respond. Gimli is uncertain what he is contemplating, exactly—what to say, or how candid he would like to be.

“I can see how you might wonder,” he says softly. “To that end, it seems my phrasing has misled you.” He straightens his posture and gestures around. “For all of our similarities, the stars are isolated where I am not. They are impervious to change by virtue of their distance. I am here, with you.” His gaze is just as open as it was in Minas Tirith, with more than a century’s worth of longing and tenderness in his eyes. “If you believe that has not irrevocably altered me, _mellon-nîn_ , then you are sadly mistaken.”

Legolas’ hands are trembling. Small wonder, this is as close to the naked truth as either of them have come since the winter of ’35. Then, it had been an agonizingly bittersweet conversation where they each explained, in the abstract, their people’s marriage traditions. Nothing had come of it, of course, and they had not permitted themselves to make such a wonderfully disastrous concession since, because the reality was that learning what they were missing had hurt more than it helped.

Now, eighty-five years later, this. Is Legolas thinking of that conversation, too?

Legolas has not looked away. He is just as nervous as Gimli, but he is certain. Just as he was in ‘35, and in Minas Tirith less than a fortnight passed. Just as unwavering has he has been every time Gimli has asked for his support and friendship over the long arc of their history.

Is it fair to deny someone what they want—and what you want to give them—on the grounds that it will not be good enough? Especially when the alternative is deliberately making an impact on their life, and then not following through when they attempt to collect on all those unspoken promises? Does he not already know what separation feels like, has he not already known that for the last hundred-and-twenty-two years?

Legolas’ legs are still stretched out towards him. He is still gazing at Gimli, waiting for his response to such a bold confession. He is not bristling with impatience, but rather soft with understanding and affection. If he does not already know what Gimli fears, he at least suspects it, and he is trying to say that he thinks this change will be worth it.

If he thinks so, then perhaps Gimli should have a little faith.

Stretching his own legs out until their boots bump companionably together is harder than it should be, and not because his joints are a little stiff in the cool night air. He shifts down the bench he is sitting on, until he is as close as the stone seat allows. The scuffle is hidden amidst the soft echoes of elfsong that have made it into the garden, and everyone besides the two of them has long since gone to their own homes. Even so, this small gesture is enough to send Gimli’s heart into his throat. A lifetime’s worth of habits will be difficult to disassemble.

Gazing at those eyes, though, Gimli knows it is going to be a worthwhile venture, for however long they have.

“Then I have never,” he says, “Been gladder to be wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations and Footnotes: 
> 
> Mellon, Mellon-nîn = Sindarin = Friend, My Friend.
> 
> Aulë (Mahal) = The Great Smith. One of the Vala, and creator of the dwarves.
> 
> There is no canonical significance about the year '35 of the Fourth Age; that's a Weary Hearts callback. 
> 
> Tolkien didn't write much as to what Ithilien was like, or how it functioned, so I made it up. Ditto with dwarven aging. 
> 
> Silvan = The subset of elves which originally inhabited the area known as The Greenwood/Mirkwood.


	3. Chapter 3

“Legolas.”

His name echoes across a great distance. Dimly, he is aware he should answer.

Yet he is so far away. He is thousands of leagues from here, so far that even his keen elven ears should not be hearing this call. He is where the sun sets on the horizon, the land of the Firstborn, where he—

_“Legolas!”_

A smack on the arm startles him back into his body. He is in the Great House sitting beside Cellimben, whom he is training as his successor—except, he is contorted in the most uncomfortable position so as to look westward. There is no door or window to mark the direction, but there does not need to be.

Legolas has no concept of how long he has been this way, except that his eyes are dry the way they typically are after resurfacing from reverie. Blinking slowly to work moisture back into them, Legolas shifts so that he is once again seated properly.

Cellimben is gazing at him with knowing and concern. She is one of the Silvan elves who helped to found Ithilien, and while it initially took decades for her to decide she liked Legolas (she initially left Eryn Lasgalen out of disdain for his father, instead of affection for his youngest son) their relationship is now exceedingly warm. “It is a good thing you have commissioned that sloop,” she says, her tone more careful than teasing. “Or I would have hewn a paddleboat and thrown you on it myself, because this is becoming untenable.”

Over the years Cellimben has proven herself a capable leader during the development and cultivation of Ithilien's crowning jewel, the Rosewood Hall, which is made of living rosewood trees. She is also a thousand years Legolas' senior, and commands significant respect amongst the prominently Silvan population of Ithilien. Between that and her penchant for no-nonsense practicality, Legolas cannot think of a more suitable candidate for the mantle of Ithilien’s lordship.

He tries to smile. “My apologies, Cellimben. How long was it this time?”

“Long enough.”

Legolas grimaces. He knows these… fixations are getting worse, but at this point there no longer seems to be a discrete sound, person or place that triggers them. They simply _happen._

Cellimben lets out a breath as she softens, clearly debating how to switch tactics. “I suppose you missed what I said about The Lord of Aglarond, then?”

Now Legolas is blinking for an entirely different reason. “I suppose I did,” he says dubiously.

Last he remembers, they were discussing how he balanced operational accounts. That has nothing to do with Gimli. Of course, Cellimben is one of the only souls who is aware that Legolas and Gimli's famous friendship has always been a carefully crafted veneer of political correctness. She found out more than sixty years ago, when Legolas could not hide a reaction to the only non-platonic thing Gimli ever sent him.

Does she mean to distract him with this?

"He has never stayed with us so long,” she says, and Legolas realizes the subject has been changed whether he wills it or no. She grins teasingly at him from over her notes. "How very nice of the good lord to spend time with his dear friend Legolas in the months leading up to his departure for Aman," she says, propping her chin on her wrist. "And yet, he is also receiving letters from Aglarond several times a week. What could possibly be so urgent that it would require frequent correspondence, but not a return to his realm? It is almost as if he is providing consultation for a newly installed dwarf Lord."

That, if Legolas is not mistaken, is Cellimben's way of informing him of popular opinion while simultaneously asking if her suspicions about what is happening between Gimli and himself are correct. "If you have time for that level of speculation," he says wryly, "I am clearly not giving you enough to do."

Cellimben is not impressed. Legolas is not surprised.

"He is going with you, is he not?" she says.

"Yes."

"Yet he has been here nearly four weeks, and you are only seen together in public spaces. He is still staying in the guest house, Legolas."

Legolas shifts uncomfortably as he struggles to determine whether she is saying this to prod him into further action, or because the general consensus in Ithilien is that even this level of companionship is too much. Has word already gotten around that they have sat on the same garden bench with their fingers tangled together the last few nights?

"Gimli is a guest here," he says finally. That seems a safe enough place to settle. "Where else might he stay?"

"Are you purposely waiting until you sail?" When he does not answer, Cellimben leans forward. "Legolas, what do you fear will happen? Even if the worst comes to pass—which I do not believe shall happen, incidentally—you will still be gone in little more than nine weeks' time. Is it a matter of legacy?"

"If I cared of legacy, I might have chosen a different elf to become Ithilien's next head of state."

He means for the joke to distract her. It does not. Cellimben hardens her gaze as she stares at him, nearly accusing. Because she knows how deeply Legolas feels about Gimli, she will not tolerate this subject being brushed off.

Legolas knows he can be firm and order her to change the subject. For as hard as Cellimben is pushing right now, she will relent if he asks it of her. He also knows that the reason she is insisting upon this conversation is that she believes it is in his best interest. She has done such things before.

Which means he has a choice: he can either prove that he wants this love to see the light of day by speaking of it with the dear friend who has known of it and respectfully kept silent for more than six decades, or he can continue as he has been.

"It is… difficult." Legolas redirects his gaze to their paperwork; it is much simpler to look upon than his friend's face. "For both of us. It has been too long, and change is…"

He does not know how to finish the sentence. Instead he flexes his hands and remembers the weight and texture of Gimli's fingers. What words could encapsulate how beautiful those square, callused hands are, or how sharp and keen the honor of finally clasping them? Simply holding Gimli's hand is enough to steal the breath from his lungs and have his heart hammering in his throat, and there are moments Legolas does not understand how he might ask for something more without it undoing him completely. There are moments where the very idea of _more_ is overwhelming, something he can never hope to meet and be worthy of.

Cellimben lets out a soft laugh and gestures between them, a reference to their less-than-amicable history. "Yes, change can be difficult." Then she tilts her head to the side, and Legolas sees sympathy warring with a genuine wish for his happiness. "But is it not worthwhile, also?"

It is not that he believes change like this will not be worthwhile in the end; he knows it will, because everything with Gimli always is. Yet he does not have the words to tell this to Cellimben, who has always been content with her own company; he scarcely has the words to describe to himself why this slow, delicate pace is as fast as he is capable of going.

He does not know how to say aloud that the depth and intensity of this love he has finally permitted himself to embrace is a terror and a marvel in its own right, and it takes some getting used to. He does not know the words to ask how others survive feeling this way for centuries, how they are not hollowed out by this sweet, beautiful burn.

When Legolas can only sum up the medley of emotion coursing through him with a small shake of his head, Cellimben sits back with a short sigh. "But you have waited this long already, I suppose. What is nine more weeks, in the face of a century?" Then she stops short. "How do you know the Valar will permit him passage to Valinor?"

"They have made exceptions in the past," Legolas says. It is a far more optimistic response than the bold truth, which is that they do not know. Legolas is rather hoping that Gimli's presence and the fact trips to Aman famously only ever work one way will be enough to force the Valar's hand, but even that feels like a bit of a desperate hope.

"For ring-bearers, yes," says the older elf. "Gimli was not one of those."

"He was one of the Nine Walkers. Does that not accord some level of consideration and prestige?"

Cellimben is quiet for a moment, her gaze searching as she chews contemplatively on the inside of her cheek. Finally, she lets out one last sigh. "All the more reason not to waste the time there is now, I say—but what do I know?"

"I appreciate your support more than you know, Cellimben."

She harrumphs gruffly. "Enough of that. I still do not understand why you balance the accounts the way you do; explain it to me again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes:
> 
> Cellimben is an OC from Weary Hearts. All the stuff about who came to establish the colony and what they did there are likewise just more Weary Hearts fodder. 
> 
> Silvans are a subset of elf--specifically, wood elves. 
> 
> Quite colloquially, the Valar are the Tolkien equivalent of the Grecian pantheon of gods. However, unlike the Greek pantheon, they technically all work under an even bigger and more powerful god, Eru Ilúvatar, who actually created them (and the universe itself). 
> 
> Canonically, Aman/Valinor is a perfect paradise meant only for elves because Reasons, but--also canonically--exceptions were made for Bilbo, Frodo and Sam, because they all faithfully carried rings of power. The Valar figured that ensuring everyone wouldn't die by letting the One Ring get back to Sauron was worth letting these boys in to elf-heaven. Fun fact: this is also the same technicality by which Galadriel herself came over, because way way back in the day she done got herself BANISHED FROM VALINOR (along with many others, but she's basically the only one who has survived this long). 
> 
> Tl;dr: Deep Tolkien lore gets wild, man.


	4. Chapter 4

The day after Legolas' conversation with Cellimben, Gimli approaches him with a notebook in hand. It is of similar size and make to the one he used to keep in during large gatherings of other diplomats, where there would be a list of Aglarond's needs and wishes that he would address one by one. Only when everything on the list was attempted or secured had Gimli given himself imprimatur to enjoy the purely social aspects of the event. What might he need one for now?

Between the daily operations of Ithilien and Cellimben's training, Legolas does not see Gimli as often as he would like. There is an unspoken agreement to meet in the public garden of the Great House in the evening, and Legolas will have dinner with Gimli if he can, but otherwise the only other times they see one another is by chance under the pavilion where the boat is being built. Legolas will transfer more and more of his duties to Cellimben as her confidence grows—in fact, he has already begun—but the difference is not yet noticeable to anyone but the two of them.

Nonetheless, Legolas smiles to see his companion this evening. The setting sun teases out the narrow streaks of brilliant red still left in the gleaming silver of his hair, causes his dark eyes to sparkle like precious stones within the laugh lines of his face. Gimli moves more stiffly than he used to, but in recent years Legolas has seen strength that he never possessed in the days of the Fellowship. Indeed, the muscles of his shoulders and arms have more definition now than they did then. For dwarves, age does not mean frailty insomuch as a deeper connection to the stone their ancestors were made from. Gimli moves as if he has never felt more firmly rooted to this earth, each gesture powerful and deliberate.

"I see you have finally submitted to the siren's song of a new project," Legolas observes with a nod to the notebook.

Gimli sits beside him on the stone bench, his knee pushing gently against Legolas' thigh. It is a new development between them, and the contact has Legolas' breath hitching. He wishes never to move, so he may always feel this pleasant, casual touch.

"It was only a matter of time, now that the braces for the boat are done," Gimli acknowledges with a smile of his own.

Legolas wishes he had the gumption to lean down and brush their lips together, to finally feel that smile pressed into him, to know what it is like to have a beard brushing against his cheeks and chin. Instead he says, "And what shall it be this time, _mellon-nîn?"_

Gimli's smile falters, and for a moment panic lances Legolas straight through. Is this too much? Should he not have asked?

They have known each other for twelve decades; why is he suddenly questioning every reaction from Gimli _now?_

His questions are answered, and his concerns allayed, when Gimli wordlessly flips the notebook open to a series of sketches. They—they are…

They are all different designs for dwarven marriage braids.

Now Legolas' breath is catching for a whole new reason. As he takes in the details of each design, he reaches up to grip a lock of hair at the nape of his neck, where they would be plaited. His mind is suddenly filled with a halting but determined conversation they had over eighty years ago, the first and only time they had allowed themselves to pretend that something like this may one day be possible. His chest constricts as longing surges within him.

"Gimli, I—" His voice breaks, and it is just as well, because he does not know how he might have finished that sentence.

"We dinnae have to, if you are uncomfortable with the idea," Gimli says, already moving to shut the notebook. "'Twas a thought, merely."

With a wordless cry, Legolas and takes his companion's hand in both of his, pinning the page open. Gimli's thick, callused fingers are quivering, and he is looking upon Legolas as though he no longer understands what to expect.

Legolas must be the cruelest fool among elves and dwarves alike. What sort of person makes someone he loves this much feel as though such a wonderful thought is unwanted?

How does he fix this? Legolas does not have the words; his voice is a frightened mouse huddled on the back of his tongue. Unequivocally, he is out of his depth.

When he brings Gimli's hand up and kisses his fingers, the gesture is intended to be reassurance as much as supplication. When he bows his head and presses his forehead into Gimli's curled knuckles, it is in defeat. He is not good at this; perhaps it is for the better that something more has never happened between them.

"Legolas." Gimli's deep voice is softer than it should be.

"I will not ask you to forgive me for insulting something so beautiful," he mumbles without lifting his head.

There is a small pause, and then a gentle, "Good, because I am nae interested in apologies." When he wiggles the fingers still in ensnared in Legolas' grasp, Legolas immediately lets go. He does not expect his cooperation to be rewarded with a square palm cupping his cheek, urging him to look up.

He certainly does not expect to see warmth and affection gazing back at him.

"You foolish creature," Gimli sighs fondly. Legolas' breath catches again as the broad pad of Gimli's thumb passes over his cheekbone. "Did I surprise you?"

"I dare not dream for more than what you might willingly offer," Legolas whispers, even as he tentatively reaches up and curls his fingers around Gimli's hand. Holding on, trying to indicate he does not want to be released.

Cataloging every tender detail of this moment, in case this is all they ever have.

"Aye, I am the same," Gimli says, thumb still moving. "I desire only to be near you. If this is all you ever want of me, I shall be content."

Legolas knows, from that one conversation in '35, the nature of dwarven devotion. Once love is found, it is absolute and unconditional—and so remarkably similar to how love works among elves that it turns the ancient enmity between their races into a tragic comedy, because they have so much more in common than they realize.

And, Legolas realizes, perhaps that also explains the state of things between himself and Gimli right now. If they can both find contentment with matters as they currently are, there is no motivation for progress. Why assert a desire for more when you do not need it, and just this is a marked improvement from what you are used to?

If all Gimli wanted was for Legolas to sit beside him and hold his hand, and maybe bump their legs together every once in a while, Legolas would have no problem with that. He sees the intimacy in these acts, and he can feel the affection and respect they represent. He does not require more to feel fulfilled. In some ways, having this be the culmination of their relationship might be a relief, because at least he knows he can do this well.

But Gimli is thinking of more than this, he _wants_ more than this; those braid designs would not exist, otherwise.

And, if Legolas is being honest with himself, just because he does not _require_ more does not mean this level of intimacy is everything he desires. Was he not thinking of what kissing Gimli might be like a few minutes earlier? Legolas does not know what he is doing, and that uncertainty is destabilizing. He is not good at this—but then, he has also never done it before. He was not always good at archery, either; he only perfected the art through practice.

It is not the nature of elven devotion for there to be practice loves. Either one learns how to be good for their partner in real time, or they do not learn at all. Does he not owe it to Gimli—who has given nearly half of his life to this love already—to learn, even if the threat of failure daunts him?

"And what if," Legolas says, halting and bashful. He swallows and gives the hand Gimli has on his cheek one last squeeze before letting his hands fall to his lap, signaling a lack of obligation. "What if I also desired such a braid? Might I help in the designing of it?"

It is not until Gimli cups his face in both hands and draws him in for a heart-wrenchingly soft kiss that a distant part of Legolas realizes just how much more intimate they have become, simply from having this conversation.

The rest of him is trembling and sagging, for just that little kiss has stolen his breath and the energy from his limbs. His heart is pounding, and his ears are hot, and his cheeks are tingling and sensitive from the brush of Gimli's beard.

"Then I would be delighted and honored," Gimli murmurs in a rolling undertone. "And your input would be welcomed."

Heat pools in Legolas' stomach as he stares at his companion in breathless awe. The sun has nearly slipped behind the horizon at this point, but Gimli is a masterpiece of silver and red and golden light. Legolas adores how his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and his stomach flips to see the look Gimli is gifting him with right now. He leans into the mighty hands that cradle him in their capable grip and marvels at how lucky he is, to be loved by someone this stunning and wonderful.

 _"Mellon,"_ Legolas says, but it is not what he means. Not really. He had been trying to say 'I love you.'

The creases at the corners of Gimli's eyes deepen. He knows, just as he has every other time the words have come out wrong. “If you are amendable,” he says, letting his hands linger on Legolas’ cheeks for a moment longer before bringing them down to his notebook. Legolas does not know how to articulate the loss he feels at the retreating touch, or the pleasant curl of anticipation of feeling it again. “Then perhaps we should find a lamp and a pen. We are fast losing the light.”


	5. Chapter 5

Though this process is as new to Gimli as it is to Legolas, he has seen enough dwarrow marry to know it does not usually take seven weeks for a couple to design a braid to represent their union. But then, such braids are usually not this complex. Perhaps they include one or two flourishes that the pair mutually enjoy plaiting, but the basic structure typically follows the format of a four-strand weave to represent heart, mind, body and soul.

Not so with Legolas and Gimli. They forgo the traditional four-strand weave entirely. Instead, they design a medley of tiny braids that twist into two large strands, to represent two lives deliberately and inextricably connected by small gestures executed with great meaning.

Of course, crafting a weave they can both wear is no small feat. Between Gimli's curls and Legolas' slippery strands, their design must go through several iterations as they test various plaits. Legolas' hair cannot hold shape without a fastener, and Gimli's is too bulky for slender, graceful twists. All told, a four-strand would be easier, but they agree nothing else feels right—and besides, when has anything for them ever been easy? So they continue to redesign and test weaves until, finally, there is a workable pattern.

Then comes the fasteners. After all the effort they have put into the plait itself, Gimli admits that a gold and silver motif is a bit plain. They are classic metals for marriage beads, though, and the mountains and trees that Gimli etches into them are similarly timeless. With how unorthodox their braid is—how shattering it is for a dwarf and an elf to marry at all—this is their one nod to tradition. Besides, anything more complex would have gotten lost in the intricacy of the braid itself.

Throughout this process of drafting and experimentation, Legolas weans himself from his Lordly duties. Instead of rendezvousing with Gimli at sunset, Legolas gradually finds him earlier and earlier, until they are spending the entirety of most days together and only separating when Gimli needs to sleep. There are still things Cellimben requires Legolas’ assistance for, of course, but—as with Ghríc’s letters from Aglarond—those instances become fewer and far between as time goes on. As Gimli and Legolas perfect this plait, it truly begins to feel as though they are twining themselves closer together.

Then there are other, less obligatory reasons for the delay. Discussions of what they want this braid to symbolize and the intricate details they would like to infuse into the design are, by their very nature, intimate. Thinking too much of what this weave represents gives Gimli a heady sensation. Are they actually going to do this, to marry? It feels too good to be true. Sometimes he wonders if he will wake up again in the reality where the only time he sees Legolas are the annual weeklong visits they began doing at the turn of the century, and realize this has all been an achingly sweet dream.

It is usually around then that Legolas reaches for his hand, or bumps their legs together, or—as happened most recently—kisses him. The action serves as reassurance as much as agreement, for Gimli is hardly the only one of their two to wonder if this is a gift they were never meant to have.

That is how they get sidetracked, because then a discussion in which they speak their innermost thoughts regarding marriage and partnership morphs into a conversation about childhood memories, or friends long since passed, or how Gimli never expected the new notebook he brought from Aglarond to already be three-quarters of the way full. Despite how long they have known each other, it seems they have more to say now than ever. Some of what they divulge is obviously personal, too meaningful to be divulged under platonic circumstances, but other pieces of information are entirely mundane. How has he never told Legolas of the shenanigans he used to get up to with his cousins Fíli and Kíli, back when they were all pebbles? Why is he only now hearing that Legolas’ mother is the one who introduced him to archery? When did Legolas start alternating between elven green tea and dwarven black tea because he cannot decide which he likes best?

Little things, all of it. And yet, once pieced together, these tiny bits illustrate a more comprehensive mosaic of the person Gimli loves. Though they are delaying the work on this marriage braid (and thus the ceremony that requires it), Gimli always leaves thinking that he knows Legolas better.

He does not think this process would be half as meaningful without these divagations, or the trust and companionship that facilitate them. It is always these conversations which give him the best concept of what their married partnership will actually be like.

It is always these conversations which make him more excited than nervous.

Of course, after all this openness and collaboration and deepening intimacy, there is just one problem.

“In the interest of full disclosure,” Gimli says when there are two weeks left before they sail. His throat is tight around the words. “I dinnae know how successful this dwarven ceremony shall be.”

Legolas does not respond. Rather, he is staring out the west-facing window of the room, unblinking and unmoving, utterly transfixed. He does not look upset, or wistful, he looks _stuck._ This has been happening with increasing frequency as the weeks pass, and if left uninterrupted he will stay this way for hours, ensnared by the call of a homeland he has never seen. It does not help to keep him from west-facing windows; Legolas will look upon the unchanging texture of a wall just as readily. In past divagations from braid-planning Legolas has admitted these trances used to be triggered only by the screeches of seagulls, but then by noises he thought sounded similar to seagulls; now, there seems to be no trigger at all.

Gimli has never needed evidence to know that Legolas would not forsake his life on Middle-Earth lightly, but seeing the elf like this shows him, in a way nothing else might, just how badly Legolas needs to leave.

It takes Gimli loudly calling his name and jostling his thigh for Legolas to finally blink. At first his gaze is owlish and empty as he tilts his head in Gimli’s direction, but as he blinks again, and again, his awareness returns to him. Finally, he blinks hard and shakes his head with an apologetic grimace. “Forgive me, _mellon_. Was I gone long?”

“Nay,” Gimli assures him. “What is the last thing you remember?”

It takes Legolas a moment to gather his thoughts, a process which Gimli can see unsettles him deeply. He is not accustomed to hazy memories, the way mortal beings are. “You mentioned full disclosure, as if you were about to confess something,” he says slowly. The dark blue of his eyes refocuses on Gimli with improving clarity. “Is there something the matter, _mellon-nîn?”_ He cringes as he realizes, a second too late, how this question sounds in juxtaposition with his most recent trance. “Aside from the obvious?”

Gimli’s heart immediately leaps into his throat. Ah, so much for hoping there might be an excuse not to mention this. Somewhat reluctantly, he reiterates his concerns about the effectiveness of a makeshift dwarven marriage ceremony.

Legolas frowns. He knows as much about dwarven weddings as Gimli does, and while this confession does not entirely surprise him, Gimli’s lack of conviction seems to have made an impact. “If you think having a dwarven forgemaster officiating the ceremony is the key to its legitimacy, I am certain your forgemaster in Aglarond would be happy to—”

“It is not simply that.” Gimli leans his elbows on the table they are sitting at in his guest house and scrubs at his face. “We dinnae even have a holy space for them to officiate _from.”_

“I recall you mentioning that Aulë’s power is more about the crafting process than the location,” Legolas reminds him gently. “Ithilien may not have a dwarven holy space, but you know full well there is a forge. You seemed convinced that would be enough when we started this process.”

“I know what I said,” Gimli groans from behind his hands.

There is a moment of hesitation, and then a long-fingered hand is roving over his shoulders in comforting manner. “Were you posturing, then?”

“I wasnae having second thoughts, then.” Gimli lets out a hard sigh, and rotates his head so that his voice is no longer muffled, though it is still resting in his palms. “At the time, I thought it would be wisest to wait until we had already completed the ceremony before mentioning it, so if anyone had objections it would be too late.”

Legolas hums. “I understand your reticence, for I share the same reservations.” He pauses, and then admits, “At this point I cannot say whether it is reflex or an objective assessment of the situation. I know there is at least one soul here who would be supportive, but I am not confident enough to name others.”

“Cellimben.”

Legolas raises his eyebrows at the certainty in Gimli’s tone, though he nonetheless concurs, “As wise and clever as the new Lady of Ithilien may be, she is not subtle.”

“If there has to be only one supporter, better it be the head of state,” Gimli mutters. That, however, is not what he was trying to explain earlier. “But even that might be moot if the damn ceremony doesnae work. The bond can only be forged by Mahal’s blessing, and he cannae bless the union if he hasnae been called to the location. I have theories, but only forgemasters know how to call him, and I still amnae convinced involving a third party is wise.”

Legolas is thoughtful, though he does not stop rubbing circles across Gimli’s shoulders. “If it does not work, then once we reach Valinor we can solicit Aulë’s assistance in person,” he says at length, shifting over the bench they are both sitting on so that their legs press together. “And remember, _mellon-nîn_ , it is not only the dwarven ceremony which forges a spiritual bond. Perhaps we will be lacking in redundancy, but we will still be—” the elf’s breath catches, and his voice drops to a hushed murmur “—married.”

It takes a moment for them to collect themselves after hearing the word said aloud. The term is one they have used sparingly thus far, precisely because of reactions like this. For them, the concept is still so cherished and new, and speaking it feels almost like calling too much attention to it, as though they are actively flirting with disaster.

Gimli is grateful when Legolas’ hand drops from his shoulders in favor of taking one of his. The action encourages him to raise his head and twist on the bench so he may look his companion in the eye.

“Aye, we will be,” he says, and he squeezes those slender, callused fingers. “I dinnae want to leave Arda without at least one successful ceremony.”

“Neither do I,” Legolas says softly, as though the effort of admitting this is all it takes to steal his breath away. He also twists so that he is properly facing Gimli, and then leans in until their foreheads bump together.

From this proximity Legolas’ eyes are the purest samples of sodalite, and the shy tenderness that shines within them is all it takes for Gimli to melt, even as his pulse jumps and his heart beats hard against his ribs from this unfamiliar closeness. He reaches up with his free hand and lightly grazes the tips of his fingers along the elf’s sinuous neck before cradling his smooth jaw. Legolas lets out a quavering breath as their lips skim past one another and the brush of Gimli’s beard raises the skin on his arms.

Gimli wants to say something, here. He wants to talk of how sweet and poignant it is to wait so they may attempt both ceremonies on the same day, wants to say how excited he is for them to belong to one another. He wants to say that, for him, it is already true, that he has belonged to Legolas for the last twelve decades.

Gazing at the soul before him now, Gimli thinks maybe he already knows. When his thumb rubs over the back of Legolas’ hand his eyes slip shut, and he leans in until the tips of their noses brush.

This, too, has caused substantial delays in their progress with designing their dwarven marriage braid. Though it has never ventured beyond exploratory kisses, they have both relished the opportunity to luxuriate in their sexual tension—in acting on any part of their mutual attraction at all.

Gimli waits a handful of experimental, heart-palpitating seconds, until the elf shivers in anticipation, before leaning up and gently pressing their lips together. Almost instantly, all the tension leaves Legolas’ body. He flows around Gimli like water, swaying deeper into Gimli’s hand as his free arm slides around Gimli’s shoulders. Despite the differences in their size and proportions, Legolas fits against him as a key to its corresponding lock. Gimli’s free arm winds around his lean waist to hold him close as he changes the angle of the kiss, earning a tiny grunt of approval for his trouble.

Is it any wonder that they have lost hours like this?

At that precise moment, there is a brisk knock on the door of the guest house. Both of their eyes snap open as they freeze. Dimly, Gimli wonders if this is what it feels like to kiss a statue.

“Legolas, I know you are in there,” comes the brisk voice of the new Lady of Ithilien herself. “There is an unusual matter I would have your guidance in navigating.” A pause, and then on afterthought, “Please.”

Both elf and dwarf are awkward as they detangle themselves. The tips of Legolas’ ears are flushed as he avoids looking Gimli in the eye. Clearing his throat, he calls, “Of course, Cellimben, I shall be there momentarily.”

“Am I interrupting something?” It is difficult to tell whether Legolas’ friend is more impressed or scandalized.

“Nay, merely a logistical discussion.” After shaking the last of the stiffness out of his hands and arms, Legolas risks shooting Gimli an apologetic and deeply embarrassed glance.

Gimli simply shakes his head and makes a shooing motion, calling to the wood-elf who has still not let herself in, “Ye dinnae have to stand outside like that, you know.”

“Don’t I?” comes the retort.

“You do not,” Legolas replies with an admirable level of composure as he opens the door, a change in demeanor only made possible through decades of practice. He has even managed to sound deadpan. “And I would thank you to stop shouting misinformation to all and sundry.”

Cellimben scoffs, but in a show of cooperation she nonetheless calls a farewell to Gimli and changes the subject. “It is a strangely worded letter from the region formerly known as Eriador…”

Gimli shakes his head when he hears the region’s name. People from Eriador are fussy and baffling to a one. If they have solicited Ithilien’s attention, then those two are going to be a while as they sort out an appropriate response.

He looks at his notebook, which is currently open to a page displaying ideas for a final decorative touch to the boat, which has already been named _Nendil_. It is not a big piece, merely an inset for the vessel’s single cabin door. Hilda had not minded, since such decoration would not hinder the structural integrity of the sloop, and Gimli… he must be getting sentimental in his old age, because the design is not subtle.

It is the crystal star of Aglarond set in the center of a big maple leaf, the same design he has been discretely marking upon the handful of objects he has made for Legolas over the years. Gimli’s primary craft has always been statesmanship and wordplay, but he enjoys the art of creating things with his hands as a means of relaxation, and whenever he lets his guard down the things he makes become trinkets for Legolas.

It is as relieving as it is unnerving that, this time, he does not have to fight the inclination.

Gimli shuts his notebook and tucks it into the drawer of the guest house’s little desk, grunting as his joints—stiff from being seated too long—creak in protest. It is early afternoon on a bright, sunny day, and like as not he has the rest of it to himself. He should go for a walk.

There are no valuables within the guest house that are not already locked in the hidden compartment of the single trunk he brought from Aglarond, so Gimli does not bother to lock the door as he leaves. His gait quickly evens out as he gets into the rhythm of walking, and soon he is tromping around with the same ease as he did during the Fellowship—well, in a manner. Each step is heavier than it used to be, but he is also stronger than he used to be, and dwarven endurance does not wane with the accumulation of years. It feels different from the nimble, easy movements of his youth, but the result is the same.

Gimli has no agenda, and thus meanders somewhat aimlessly through the city center, which is dominated by the towering elven majesty of the Rosewood Hall. The branches of the live trees, trained to steeple against one another like so many intertwined fingers, rustle in soft breezes that skim above most rooftops. Gimli swears he hears a pleasant, ambient humming from the living building—or perhaps that is merely the faint ringing coming from the Aglaronian crystals hanging from the branches as they clink together.

Because Ithilien was built from the rubble of the ancient Gondorian city Minas Ithil, its buildings are numerous and somewhat haphazard. The elves and men who make the realm home, however, have turned the spaces between structures into sweet-smelling gardens and green spaces, and passages made of successive, twelve foot tall trellises of arching vines give shade and shelter from the elements as they connect buildings with similar uses. Bone-white stone and vibrant green are the realm’s primary colors, and the chaos of the ancient men’s nonexistent city planning is soothed by elven orderliness. The result is friendly and eclectic, and pleasantly scented with sage, rosemary, and lavender, though Gimli knows enough to also spot mints and lemon balms and wormwood as he treks about.

Apparently, hosting an ever-expanding subterranean greenhouse for the men and hobbits who make Aglarond home, and maintaining a lifelong friendship with an elf of the wood, has rubbed off on him.

Gimli has been here long enough that people are starting to recognize him on sight, and he exchanges several greetings as he moves along, surrounded by conversations and songs made in Sindarin, Silvan and Westron. The sound is curious, but not unpleasant. For all that Ithilien is not quite as diverse as Aglarond, the population is strongly trilingual. Westron is the dominant language in Aglarond, though its large dwarven population makes Khuzdul a close second by default.

It is not his intention to have wandered by Mírn’s Stoneworks, but when he sees the broad, unmistakably dwarven storefront Gimli decides to say hello to the friend who has made Ithilien their home for a little over sixty years. Though Mírn is younger than Gimli, their hair and beard are both an even, steely grey. They move as though they are not yet inconvenienced by stiff joints—age has certainly not hindered their voice as they bark at assistants and apprentices who are working at the back of the warehouse, or gossip with their wife as she occasionally ducks her head out of the back office. Most of the former are dwarrow, but Gimli spies an elf or two among them, and even a mannish youth.

“Just the khazâd I wanted to see!” says Mírn when they spot Gimli. This is a familiar greeting between them, and has been for decades, yet instead of the usual casual ribbing Mírn’s tone is surprisingly sincere. They hop down from the platform behind the service counter that brings them up to elf and mannish height and approach Gimli to greet him properly. “Do ye have a few minutes to walk with me?”

“Aye, what is on your mind?”

Mírn shakes their head before calling for their wife not to miss them too much during their absence, and for one of their apprentices to mind the counter while they step out. Then they are walking alongside Gimli in the sunshine once more. “I willnae tell anyone, if you dinnae wish,” Mírn says once they have gotten far enough away from potentially gossipy ears. “But are ye going with Lord Legolas when he sails?”

The question itself is not surprising; rather, Gimli is startled it has taken this long for someone other than Cellimben to ask. He and Legolas have hardly been discreet in the way they have sought one another’s company these last seven weeks—but perhaps their peers have different standards for what they consider dreadfully obvious.

“I am, aye,” says Gimli, and while this is not precisely a _secret_ , acknowledging it aloud feels strangely illicit. The confirmation leaves his lips tingling.

It also stuns Mírn. For several paces, the two dwarves walk on in silence. “I know we arnae close,” they say at length, each word carefully chosen, “But are ye sure you have thought this through?”

Gimli’s first instinct is to reply that he has thought altogether far too much about this. Something about the other dwarrow’s demeanor stays his reflex, though. There is genuine fear in their voice, and after living in Ithilien so long Gimli doubts it is apprehension over Legolas being an elf.

“What do you mean?” he asks instead.

“Have you considered that they maynae accept you there?” asks Mírn. “Or that, by choosing Valinor, you may be forgoing your place in the Halls of Mahal?”

Gimli does not have an answer for that. By joining Legolas on this voyage, he will be the first dwarf in Arda’s history to attempt going to Valinor, a place only elves are meant to go. There are no precedents for how well or poorly this will go—even Durin himself has not attempted something like this, not in any of his six previous lives.

It is moments like this where Gimli wishes he were a forgemaster, or close enough to one to ask them for a favor. Between this and his concerns about the dwarven wedding, so much seems to be hinging on whether Mahal approves of Gimli’s unorthodox choices.

But then, did Mahal not write Gimli’s own heart? Why would he not approve of Gimli following it?

That sounds reasonable enough, on the outset, but he still does not _know._ It it foolish not to acknowledge the possibility he might be wrong.

“I amnae aiming to contest your motivations,” says Mírn gently. The way they move their head causes the beads within their own marriage braid to glint in the sunlight, though at this point Gimli cannot decide whether he thinks this inadvertent reminder of what he could lose is motivating or provoking. “But you have family in the Halls who surely wish to see you again.”

The question of whether it is worth it to follow an immortal being to the Undying Lands when he is already so old hangs unspoken in the air, but is no less potent. What if Gimli dies as soon as they arrive, and his soul has nowhere to go? What if he arrives there and he _never_ dies, becomes doomed to exist forever as an elderly dwarrow?

These questions are not intended to be disparaging. Mírn is expressing an honest concern for his welfare in a position where there is no one else to do it. Close they may not be, but these are the tough questions only a true friend would dare to pose.

And yet, for all this uncertainty, all these legitimate concerns, the alternative is so much more tragic. Even if the worst comes to pass, Gimli will still have had a few extra months with Legolas. He still will have been able to finally show his other half how deeply he is loved.

At this point in Gimli’s life, being able to do that is worth almost any sacrifice.

“There are unmitigated risks,” Gimli says at length. He cannot pretend otherwise. “Yet, ultimately, I wouldnae be able to live with myself if I acted otherwise.”

He can tell Mírn does not understand—and how could they? They married within the Khazâd. They know enough not to question Gimli’s heart, but they do not and will never ken the challenges that come from loving someone you were supposed to hate. Gimli does not resent them for not understanding.

“Then I suppose you must go, whatever the consequences may be,” they say somberly, as though they truly mean to be giving Gimli his final rites. “I willnae tell anyone your secret, on my honor.”

Considering how little Gimli and Legolas have drawn attention to themselves thus far, it is not illogical to presume they would want the true reason they are departing together to be obscured. Hearing it aloud, however, chafes at Gimli in a way he never expected.

“I would rather you didnae lie, actually,” he finds himself saying. “If someone asks, I would rather you spoke the truth.”

His friend’s steely grey brows draw together. “Most shall assume I am attempting to slander you.”

They are right, and that is perhaps the most provoking thing of all. It hurts to know that, now Gimli is finally ready to be honest about what Legolas is to him, it will never be taken as truth. “But I will know it isnae slander, and so will you.” Gimli licks his lips. “And, if all goes well, the rest shall also know one day.”

Mírn’s mouth presses into a discomfited frown. They do not have to articulate it aloud for Gimli to know they are not convinced all shall ‘go well.’ “Are you certain about this?”

“Aye. More certain that I have ever been.”

There is a tense silence as they walk on, and then Mírn lets out a heavy sigh. “I shall be honest, if ever I am asked,” they vow, “Though I cannae guarantee ye shall like the results.”

This support—reluctant though it is—fills Gimli with a hope he does not know he has ever possessed. He reaches over and claps a hand on the master stonemason’s shoulder. “I shall take them as they come, and you have my most sincere gratitude, Mírn. Would that every khazâd could have a friend like you.”

At first Mírn is still plainly uncertain they have made the right choice, but then they see Gimli’s joy, and a slow grin finds them. “When we get back to the shop, say that in front of my wife, and I shall consider your debt half paid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the headcanon about what kind of tea elves and dwarves use goes to my friend spookymodernjazz, and is used with permission. He's got this whole thing about it, and I love it.
> 
> Mellon, Mellon-nîn = Sindarin = Friend, My Friend.
> 
> Tolkien's canonical version of dwarven marriage (what little he wrote of it) very closely mirrors historically Jewish traditions. [The Dwarrow Scholar](https://thedwarrowscholar.com/2013/04/11/whos-the-bride-dwarven-marriage/) has a fantastic writeup wherein he tried to follow the breadcrumbs and fill in as many gaps as he could, using only the meta and implications Tolkien wrote, but I (like most of the fandom) have largely rejected this conjecture and substituted my own. All of which is to say, the braid thing is actually 100% fanon, but I'm super into it. I also made up some other meta regarding marriage for both elves and dwarves, but you'll see what I mean in future chapters.
> 
> Mírn is a character from Weary Hearts. 
> 
> Khazâd = Khuzdul = A gender-neutral term for a dwarf or dwarves. There is some difference between Khazâd and Khazad, but because I am not a linguist and do not have the patience to figure out what a compositive or definite noun is, I've gone broad-strokes and applied the accent to everything. The capitalized version of this denotes a cultural name, which is simply “The Dwarves”.


	6. Chapter 6

"Since this piece shall be exposed to the elements, particularly salt," Gimli explains as he works, "The consideration is not if it shall weather, but how."

Legolas nods as he looks to the samples of copper and tin before them. They are in Ithilien's forge after its daytime staff have concluded their business for the day, and while there is still an hour or two before the sun fully sets, at Gimli's request he has already lit some lamps to compensate for the steadily waning light. "I have always thought bronze weathered quite prettily."

"Aye, it is one of the only alloys most can agree upon for such things."

"And it is best to make the alloy oneself?" Legolas knows nothing of blacksmithing, but he does know it is possible to order bronze ingots from Minas Tirith, instead of its composite parts.

Gimli snorts. "It is when you dinnae trust what the men are making."

Legolas might have guessed.

"Of course," he says with a small smile. "How may I assist you in this, _mellon?"_

"By fetching supplies, primarily. I willnae risk an untrained hand so close to liquid metal." Gimli pauses as something about the heat radiating from the forge itself catches his attention. He grabs a poker and aggravates the coals. "Hopefully, it shall be enough."

Dwarven marriages happen in two parts. The first is public knowledge—a grand ceremony led by a forgemaster, wherein speeches are made, it is reiterated that the bond is indissoluble, and the couple pledges themselves to the undertaking of the process whilst twining their custom marriage braids into one another's hair. Then the couple retreats with the forgemaster to a holy space and returns perhaps twenty minutes later, fully married. What happens therein, or even what the holy space looks like, is shrouded in secrecy.

Gimli has made some educated guesses based upon Aulë being the Vala of craft, and the fact that a forgemaster—whose skill is so exemplary that practicing it becomes a spiritual experience, for the Great Smith's power is never greater than within a forge—must officiate it. Presuming this part of the process includes making something in a forge is straightforward enough, but of course, they have no way of knowing if they are right, or if _what_ they are making matters. There are also no illusions that either of them has skill even close to that of a forgemaster. It is possible that Aulë shall only listen if one of his most gifted children calls for him. Legolas thinks that may be why Gimli is going out of his way to create the bronze himself: a hope that this extra effort might help to call Aulë’s attention to them.

Or a way to compensate for what Legolas cannot safely contribute.

"Is it hot enough?" Legolas asks of the forge. He cranes his neck to peer into its pulsing red depths, but he does not know what he should be looking for.

"Aye." Gimli sets the poker down and looks up at him. "Are you ready?"

The question causes Legolas' pulse to jump in the most wonderful way. Gimli is wearing a heavy canvas apron to protect his torso from heat and wayward sparks, and beside the rich light of the forge the remaining red in his hair seems to be made of sinuous streaks of fire. For safety's sake, his hair and beard are plaited back from his face, except for the single, conspicuous curly lock at the nape of his neck. Even hanging by his sides, the powerful line of his shoulders and the bulge of the muscles in his arms are undeniably prominent. As he drinks in the beautiful sight before him, Legolas' limbs feel weak and his fingers tingle in anticipation. He swallows, though his mouth has gone dry.

By one way or another, they are going to be married by dawn.

"Yes," he says, but the emotion has stripped the strength from his voice.

Gimli's forehead wrinkles, and he asks with concern, "Do ye need a moment, Legolas? Are you certain you—"

Legolas shakes his head and steps forward to clasp both of his hands. "Never, in the entirety of my life, have I been more certain than I am now. Gimli, _mellon…"_ He stops as the sheer enormity of the love surging within him makes it hard to think. Instead, he squeezes the strong, dear hands he is holding, and kisses each of them in turn before holding them against his heart, which is beating so furiously Gimli can surely hear it from half a step away. "I have never felt more blessed, or honored, than I do standing before you now," he murmurs. "Forgive me if I become overwhelmed, but do not fret that I shall change my mind."

For a moment Gimli just looks at him, and then the corners of his eyes crinkle as the trepidation in his demeanor is replaced by molten affection. This was something he needed to hear. "You sweet, sentimental creature," he says fondly. "Come here."

Legolas leans down and is rewarded with a slow, searing kiss that leaves his nerves buzzing. They are both breathless when they separate.

"If we do not begin now, it shall be another half hour before the coals are hot enough again," Gimli says with regret. He pulls his hands back and reaches up to touch the fine strands of Legolas’ hair. There is something so wholly _intimate_ about the gesture that Legolas' heart skips a beat. He nods, too overcome to speak, and his beloved favors him with a smile that crinkles the corners of his enchanting dark eyes.

"I will be switching to Khuzdul for the rest," Gimli warns. "But ye can ask me for a translation after, if you are curious. I dinnae mind telling you."

Legolas nods again, his throat tight. He trusts Gimli implicitly, even when he does not know the language he is speaking.

For all of this lead up, Legolas is not prepared for the deep, rolling sound of Gimli's voice to wash over him as he twines their marriage braid into Legolas’ hair. His hands are gentle, and his movements steady.

There is an active rhythm to the Khuzdul he speaks, like a drum beat that sets the tempo for a celebratory dance, punctuated by the whoosh of hot air rushing up through the flume and the crackling heat of the coals in the forge. There is something elemental about this experience that Legolas has never felt before, despite how deeply connected he is to nature.

For just a moment, Gimli's eyes flick to his, checking to see if he is alright, and Legolas' head starts spinning. This is happening—really, actually _happening_.

After all this time, after decades of keeping their distance and playing pretend, of hiding who they are and how much they care, they are here. They are _here_ , and this incredible, beautiful soul is pledging to be his husband.

Legolas' voice has long since fled him, but he tries to smile to show that he is not upset—that, in fact, he has never been happier. Something warm and wet rolls down his cheek when he blinks.

Gimli pauses and, with a look of wonder, reaches up to touch his face, to wipe the moisture away. Legolas turns his head and kisses his fingers, leans into them and smiles again. He does not feel weak, or ashamed; he wants Gimli to know how much this means to him, wants to communicate how completely he has dedicated himself to this love. This may be new, and somewhat overwhelming, but he is not afraid.

With a nod and a lingering caress, Gimli continues. There are little snaps as the gold and silver fasteners are clipped into place, and the glint of the precious metal as it throws the light from the lamps and the fire is distracting. When he moves, Legolas feels like a bejeweled pommel or chalice. It is decidedly dwarven in nature, and he enjoys it because of how obviously it marks him as the spouse of a dwarf.

Even if the rest of the ceremony does not work, he wants to keep this. He wants to show anyone who looks upon him that he has been claimed by the one who loves him.

Legolas is so distracted by the weight and glitter of this new braid that he nearly misses his cue to do the same for Gimli. The dwarf's smile is amused and a little incredulous when he sees Legolas' fingers tremble as he reaches for those brilliant silver curls. Gimli's hair is a thick and strong as the rest of him, and yet it folds into the weave easily, as if this is how it has always wanted to be plaited. Dwarven hair is voluminous enough not to need textured fasteners, as elven hair does; Legolas is surprised to see how effective the smooth beads are at keeping Gimli's curls in place. There is something appropriate about it, though—anything less stalwart than Gimli himself would simply not do.

When he is done, Legolas waits until Gimli has reached a stopping point in the Khuzdul he is speaking, and then kisses him. He doubts this is part of proper dwarven ceremonial decorum, but his very presence is hardly traditional, so what is one more oddity?

Besides, Gimli does not seem to mind. He kisses back as though there is nothing else he wishes to do. In truth, since giving themselves imprimatur it has been difficult to stop.

They still do, of course. There is still metal to melt, and an inset to create, and they do not want to waste time waiting for the forge to become hot enough again. For all that it has felt like hours have passed since their conversation began, it has been only a handful of minutes.

Gimli is still speaking Khuzdul, and Legolas is starting to pick out liberal use of the name Mahal. He suspects what Gimli is saying has nothing to do with the motions he makes at Legolas to hand him the tongs, and then the copper. The metal glows as it begins to liquefy in the large crucible in the center of the flames. He motions for Legolas to use the bellows and increase the heat a little more.

Gimli shifts the crucible about with the tongs every once in a while to make sure that everything is melted, and then he has Legolas open the flume to the smokestack wide, because they do not need as much heat to melt the tin that is summarily added to the copper.

Still calling for his god, Gimli makes sure that the alloy is fully mixed before having Legolas put on a set of heavy leather gloves and bring over the stone form they carved together. Legolas sets the slab upon the anvil, and the newly minted bronze hisses as it slinks, glowing and viscous, into the mold.

When he sets the tongs and crucible down, Gimli stops speaking. He looks between the forge and the steaming metal before them, and then up to Legolas, questioning. Legolas shakes his head to indicate nothing has changed for him. Dwarven marriage bonds include a tangible linking of the souls, just as elven bonds do, and Legolas' _f_ _ëa_ feels no different than it ever has.

Gimli grunts and drums his fingers on the anvil with an air of helplessness. "Perhaps it has to be fully cool?" he murmurs in Westron.

Or perhaps it did not work. The concept hangs in the air, unacknowledged and insistent. They knew this may not be successful, and there is a myriad of reasons as to why—far more than reasons for it to work.

Still, there is something utterly crushing about a rejection like this. After more than a century of denying themselves out of respect for the ugly politics between their races, it seems especially cruel to add a complication like this to the matter.

They wait until the bronze has fully cooled, just in case, but even after Gimli flips it out of the stone form nothing changes. They have no way of knowing what went wrong, and the amount of time and resources it would take to build the forge back up and try again do not justify what will likely be similar results.

"Not all is lost, _mellon_. Elven marriages do not require the consent of the Valar; that option is still open to us," Legolas says after they have cleaned up the forge and stepped out into the mild Ithilien night. He is trying to be optimistic, to distract from this failure, but the weight of the unsanctioned marriage braid upon his shoulder is unexpectedly heavy.

"It is, aye," says Gimli. "And when we reach Valinor we can ask Mahal about this in person."

Though his words are reasonable, his voice is hollow and dull. Against all odds, it seems he really had faith this would work.

"We do not have to use this piece, if it is too painful to look upon," Legolas says of the inset. "We are scheduled to sail tomorrow; none will know it is not part of _Nendil_ but us."

He is not certain that is what he wants, himself; despite the fact it did not help them marry, it is still a beautiful piece, and Legolas loves what it represents. He is concerned about Gimli, though, and his companion's mental and emotional welfare far exceed his sentiment for this slab of bronze.

Gimli considers this offer, each step heavy on the repurposed stone that paves the streets of Ithilien. The moon is nearly full in the sky, and shines brightly despite a smattering of cloud cover. Its light glints coldly off the new beads in Gimli's curls, highlighting their illegitimacy.

"I would finish the job," Gimli decides at length. "I dinnae think Hilda would appreciate her most recent masterpiece sailing off incomplete."

"Alright," is all Legolas can think to say. Without speaking further, they veer away from the paths that would take them to their separate sleeping quarters and down the one that leads to the River Anduin, which is what they will be navigating to reach the ocean. It is less than a league from their current location, but the walk is long enough for the strained silence between them to become unbearable. When they reach _Nendil_ gently bobbing in her berth, mast tall and sails neatly furled, it is almost a relief.

All the supplies they need for setting the bronze into the polished wooden door that leads below deck are already on _Nendil_ herself, and the moon is bright enough to work by. It is not a difficult process. There are tabs on the inset that correspond to cleverly crafted slots in the wood—and between that, some strong rabbit skin glue, and a few specifically angled nails, the inset is as secure as they can make it. The only struggle was finding a way to both crowd upon the three narrow steps leading down to it.

It is a regretfully beautiful detail that truly marks this sloop as theirs. Perhaps that is an abstraction—Gimli, with the custom bracers and metalwork he smithed, has had more of a hand in its construction than he. Legolas helped with small details along the way, and his stipend as Lord of Ithilien financed the project, but overall his skillset of hunting, botany, combat and politics has not really been of much use here. This inset is the most involvement he has been permitted since those first few planning sessions with Hilda.

Yet it is he and Gimli who will be sailing out on the tide tomorrow, and they who will be living on this vessel for however long it takes to sail to the Undying Lands. If not in this specific moment, _Nendil_ will certainly be theirs by the time they reach Valinor.

_Valinor_. It is a yearning that Legolas has managed to bury even deeper than his love for Gimli—and, ironically, one that seems content with being overshadowed by the latter, so long as Legolas is working towards the ultimate goal of getting there. If not for the moments in which Legolas blinks and realizes he does not know how long he has been staring off to the west…

He admits he has some preconceived notions about what life will be like in the Undying Lands. Some do not feel like his own, because for himself Legolas thinks he shall miss non-elven company. He does not relish the idea of sailing, not really. He has never been fond of open water.

Yet he knows the air in Valinor is the cleanest and purest he shall ever breathe, and the trees are all tender and green and have never known sorrow. Aman is a place where all elves, regardless of heritage, find contentment—

"Legolas."

He closes his eyes, which have been staring vacantly westward, and lets out a breath. Gimli's voice is a soft burr, which normally that would not be enough to call him back from the unsolicited fantasies. He thinks it was the sadness that reached him, instead of the volume.

This most incredible person, who has decided to learn to sail alongside him, though he also finds no comfort on open water. This beautiful dwarf that has systematically untangled his ties to Middle-Earth so he may follow Legolas somewhere else entirely.

The weight of the marriage braid they somehow still have not earned is draped heavy over Legolas' shoulder. His beloved husband, in every way but the ones that matter.

"I am sorry, _mellon,"_ he says, and as he speaks he realizes he is still holding onto the inset, though at this point it has long since been secured. He does not know if he is apologizing for this most recent trance, or that he will soon feel too undeserving of this marriage braid to wear it.

Legolas opens his eyes and gazes at the inset he is kneeling next to, the crystal of Aglarond wrapped in the leaf of his favorite tree. He traces the crystal's shape with the tips of his fingers. It seems so real to look upon it here. It is possible they shall never have what they want, even now that they are brave enough to ask for it?

Gimli lets out a heavy sigh as he grunts and straightens his shoulders. "Aye, _âzyungelê_ , me too."

Legolas lifts his head. In the hundred and twenty-two years they have known one another, Gimli has never called him anything but his name. His hands slide from the inset and into his lap as he asks, "What does that—"

He is interrupted by the most strange and wonderful sensation he has ever felt. It is as if a door within him has been opened to admit a rush of warm, spiced air. Legolas feels his _f_ _ë_ _a_ pull and stretch without being torn or reduced, and in exchange he is surrounded by the comforting warmth of—

Gimli. It is _Gimli_. He is the smoky flavor of perfectly brewed dwarven tea. He is the spice of pipeweed. He is the quiet steadiness of stone.

And, now, his _f_ _ë_ _a_ is irrevocably intertwined with Legolas'. They are as tangled as the hair in their own marriage braids, a series of tendrils gloriously curled around one another. In an instant, Legolas feels an irrevocable awareness of Gimli take up residence in the corner of his mind. In an instant, he feels the intangible cords stretched between them thrum like an instrument whose strings have just been plucked, relaying faint echoes of the shock and confusion he can see in Gimli's face and body language.

So this is what it means to share your soul.

Elf and dwarf goggle at one another, eyes wide and glassy and mouths agape. They each take turns flicking eyes over to the molded bronze inset Legolas has just released, trying to understand why this is happening _now_ , instead of in the forge. It has been more than two hours since the bronze was cast. Is this delay because of the unorthodox circumstances? Did Aulë have to ask Eru Ilúvatar for permission, or was he using this time to debate the pros and cons of this union?

Their union.

Unequivocally, they have been united. Though they are not touching, Legolas has never felt so connected with anyone. If he moves, he is not certain that his legs and arms shall not tangle in the invisible strands connecting them. He has been ensnared in the best possible way, enfolded within the ethereal embrace of a soul he wholeheartedly adores.

"Love." Gimli's voice is hoarse, and there is a shine in his eyes that Legolas has only seen one other time. "I called you the love of my life. I figured if—" his deep voice breaks as emotion overcomes him "—if it wasnae going to be represented any other way, then the least I could do is name it aloud."

The next thing Legolas knows, he is scrambling closer and yanking his sweet, wonderful partner in for a fierce kiss. The suddenness of his motion sends _Nendil_ rocking, sloshing river water and her hull knocking against the berth, but he does not care. He half-expects to tumble over a wayward cord of their new bond, and feeling the elastic way it shrinks as he narrows the space between them is powerfully distracting, but showing Gimli how much he appreciates and adores the sentiment he just heard takes precedence.

Perhaps their bond gave him the split-second warning he needed, or perhaps Legolas has lost some of his agility on the unsteady surface of the sloop, but either way Gimli catches him without stumbling. He also harnesses the desperate energy of the kiss into something far more tender and long term. "I have you," he murmurs reassuringly as one broad hand caresses Legolas' side.

"You are my husband," Legolas breathes, and the words are so foreign and delightful that just articulating them makes his lips tingle. He cups Gimli's face in his hands and covers it with a dozen kisses, just because he can, and there are none left who can say he has not the right to. Then he presses their foreheads together. "Oh, _mellon_ , you are my _husband."_

"And you are mine," his magnificent husband rumbles in a voice that thrums deliciously across their connection. Warmth and attraction ripple down Legolas' spine as he shivers. He reflexively kisses the tips of the fingers that touch his face. "It has always just gone the one way. Ever have I belonged to you, but I havenae been able to claim you for my own."

Decades of devotion spoken through multi-tired implications make these musings much bolder than they should be. They are _brazen_ , so much so that Legolas does not fully trust the conclusions he has come to.

Experimentally, Legolas plucks at one of the ethereal tendrils stretched between them and sends forth a notion. Suggestiveness may be too nuanced a concept to convey in a gentle ripple; it is very possible this shall not work as a nonverbal question.

Gimli makes a small noise in his throat as he receives the notion—and then Legolas’ _f_ _ë_ _a_ is humming as his sentiments are returned with interest. They are of like mind, it seems.

And, this time, they do not have to make a secret of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm excited to share the marriage headcanons I've developed! I know in Weary Hearts I said I had nothing interesting to say on the subject that wasn't already popular fanon, but after some thinking I decided I did have Opinions after all. Feel free to let me know what you think! 
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> mellon, mellon-nin = Sindarin = friend, my friend respectively
> 
> Nendil = Sindarin = water friend. It's a nod to the fact that, in the Weary Hearts universe, Silvan elves don't like being taken off of solid, dry land, and neither do dwarves. It's more of an aspiration name--as in, please be our friend while we're out on the ocean, we'd really appreciate not dying. 
> 
> fëa = Quenya = soul
> 
> âzyungelê = Khuzdul = my love of all loves. I would argue that this could be more colloquially translated as "love of my life"
> 
> PROGRAMMING NOTE: While this fic is rated Explicit for sexual content, I am keenly aware that it is following up a G-rated fic, and I want this story to be accessible. As such, it's only fair to warn those of you who are not interested in such content that next week's chapter IS the sexy chapter. I'll be posting warnings at the top of the piece, as well as a brief summary of events, so you will get the gist of things if you would like to skip it.
> 
> For the rest of you: buckle in. I doubt there's much crossover between LOTR and my last fandom of Steven Universe, but if there is (and you've read my stuff) then you might know that I absolutely love writing porn and I 100% will be going overboard with it. ;D


	7. Boat Down to Bonetown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posted a day early cus I am excited for ya'll to read. This chapter is 15,000 words of boning and feels/character development, and they are inextricably intertwined. If you don’t like reading sex scenes, here’s the cliff notes: They get elf-married, and the whole endeavor brings them closer together. More detailed recap at the top of next week’s chapter. For everyone else, buckle up! 
> 
> Also the chapter title is a joke that I could not resist. Forgive me my dumb 5 year old humor.

For a vessel that shall brave the open ocean, _Nendil_ is not terribly large. She measures twenty feet from stem to stern, and while her keel is similarly deep her hull only goes half as far. Nonetheless, there is enough clearance below deck for even Legolas to stand in most places (though the top of his head does brush the ceiling, more often than not). A majority of the space is dedicated to the storage of food, water, and maintenance supplies, but there is a small table for writing and food preparation, and a single cot primarily for Gimli’s sake, since elves do not need to rest as often as mortals.

Though it is more spacious than it looks from the outside, there is not a lot of open floorspace. The stringent demands of sailing mean that Legolas and Gimli are not likely to be below deck at the same time very often, but the times they are it shall be a tight squeeze.

Somehow, these considerations do not enter Legolas’ mind at all as Gimli tugs him down the three steps and through the door they have just emblazoned with the symbol of their new house, their tools and the stone mold forgotten on the deck above. They are followed only by the sounds of water lapping against _Nendil’s_ hull at level with Legolas’ chest and a silvery shadow of moonlight.

Legolas is so enraptured by the hand in his and what being led here implies that a combination of poor night vision and inattention has him knocking his head against the door frame instead of ducking in. He hisses in pain and embarrassment as he belatedly makes the necessary adjustments.

If that is not a fine way to begin…

Gimli makes a sympathetic sound and uses his dark-vision to guide Legolas to the cot. Legolas drops onto it, and immediately there are warm fingers soothing his forehead. “That was a mighty smack. Are ye alright?”

“Yes, _mellon,”_ he insists, somewhat more tersely than he intends. To distract himself from what a poor impression he has made, Legolas captures those worrying fingers in his own. “If you would merely pretend that was a shining moment of elven grace instead of clumsy foolishness, I would be grateful.”

The warm chuckle this request inspires is almost worth the embarrassment singeing the tips of his ears. “Typically, I wouldnae agree to such a thing,” says Gimli archly. “But, considering it is your wedding day, I suppose I shall look the other way this once.”

Legolas forgets about the discomfort that is already receding from his forehead as a surprised laugh bubbles from his lips. “Much obliged, Master Dwarf. I did not take you for the sentimental sort, but I shall know better next time.”

He is further distracted by a firm kiss that has warmth curling pleasantly in the depths of his stomach. Across their bond ripples a fondness that entirely overshadows his mortification. “Stay where you are, Master Elf,” Gimli murmurs. “And I shall further indulge your delicate constitution by lighting a lamp.”

“Such care! Perhaps I should get married every day.”

His husband laughs as he digs a striker out of one of the latched drawers under the table and lights the lamp that has been bolted to its surface. “Then you shall have to content yourself to being a lover of fish, for I dinnae know any others you might find on the open sea!” Gimli grins at Legolas’ strangled giggle of disgust, and then considers. “I cannae decide whether that might earn Ulmo’s favor or ire.”

“I will happily concede that you have won this contest of wits if you cease those musings this instant.”

“Why, Legolas!” says Gimli in mock surprise. “I didnae think you a smallminded soul.”

“Alas, I confess that taking a dwarf for my husband is as much as my narrow perception is capable of.” While his tone remains dry, Legolas cannot help the giddy smile that accompanies the words ‘my husband.’ It is a soaring victory that he shall never take for granted; even winning the Ring War had not been this sweet.

“Ach, would that I had known!” The lamp’s flame wavers with the swaying motion of the river and causes Gimli’s eyes to shine like precious stones as he approaches again. He braces his thick, powerful arms on either side of Legolas’ hips with a sigh of feigned disappointment that dissolves into an abruptly steamy atmosphere as he leaves an impossibly light kiss on the hinge of Legolas’ jaw. His beard, despite still being tied off in practical workman’s braids, elicits a pleasant shudder as it brushes against the sensitive skin of Legolas’ throat. “But I suppose there is nothing for it now,” he mutters. “I shall just have to take you as you are.”

Legolas is not certain whether that last is meant to be a double entendre until the amorous pulse travels across their bond. Then his mouth goes dry, and his heart skips a beat.

 _Oh_.

As it turns out, talking about elven weddings in the abstract is very different from talking about them with intention.

Legolas licks his lips as he gazes upon his husband, at a loss for words even as a private thrill dances down his spine.

Gimli leans back with a frown. “I dinnae mean to overwhelm you.”

“Nay, you have not.” He reaches for one bearded cheek. While he is sitting, they are of a height with one another. Even now, it is a little disorienting to not have to angle himself down to reach Gimli—not bad, merely unfamiliar.

He swallows. There shall be a lot of that before the night is passed, if things keep going as they are. It is not that Legolas wishes to delay this, but there is a nervousness that dogs the heels of his will. He has lived long enough that he is rarely confronted with something so entirely _new,_ and while he knows his inexperience is to be expected, there is almost a sheepishness to his ignorance. In the weeks leading up to this moment, Legolas had not attempted to augment his limited knowledge in any way.

He thinks the reason he did not is the same reason he and Gimli stopped speaking of marriages and relationships in the abstract for so many decades. He thinks he was afraid to learn, because if nothing came of it his perfect elven memory would never allow him to forget what he was missing. It took three years for Legolas to finally make peace with knowing dwarven marriage customs he would likely never experience himself; he did not wish to further torture himself with specific thoughts of how he might make Gimli his husband in the elvish way, especially if such a union was not guaranteed.

Now, against all odds, they are here, and Legolas is entirely unprepared.

“Are you certain?” Gimli asks. “You seem overwhelmed, Legolas.”

He does not know how to explain this. How might mere words, or even a few bashfully supplied emotions across the bond they already have, capture the breadth of his awe and trepidation and the faint, traitorous vein of doubt that whispers of there being yet another obstacle that he will not know how to overcome?

It seems he has taken too long to respond, for Gimli covers his hand and leans into his palm. “Would it comfort you to know that I am similarly out of my depth?”

Indeed, his grip is unsteady, and now that his attention has been drawn to it Legolas can feel apprehension quivering across their connection.

“I do not understand,” he admits as his index finger traces the noble ridge of his husband’s browbone. “Based on your descriptions, I presumed dwarves were permitted far more experimentation than elves.”

“We are, aye, but the desire for experimentation—” Without breaking eye contact, he pauses to kiss the underside of Legolas’ wrist, and the soft push of his lips combined with the many-faceted tickle of his whiskers awakens every nerve “—Fades upon the discovery of our heart. To continue regardless would be inauthentic, and ultimately unfulfilling.”

Something cold cinches around Legolas’ heart and dampens the delightful sensitivity. No, there must be something he is misunderstanding. “But that would mean, for more than century, you…”

Gimli nods with a helpless sort of honesty. “For more than a century,” he concurs softly. “And my body has changed so much since the last time that I truly dinnae know how it shall perform for you.”

There is apology in his tone, as if this lonely fate that Legolas inadvertently sentenced him to is somehow his fault. As if aging and the unsanctioned love that forced half a lifetime of abstinence upon him are shameful character flaws that he should have corrected for by now.

Everything hurts.

Legolas pulls him in and kisses him thoroughly, attempting to impart as much care and contrition as possible. This is not enough to make up for a hundred-and-twenty-two-years—it is not nearly enough—but at least it is something he knows how to do. He is here now, and though he is ignorant, his motivations are strong. Hopefully, that shall count for something in the end.

When they finally separate, he says breathlessly, “Teach me how to fix this. I will do anything.”

 _“Âzyungelê,”_ his husband says, a little stunned, “There is nothing broken.”

Legolas shakes his head, swallowing around the lump of emotion the unearned endearment balls in his throat. “There is, if I have made you feel anything less than magnificent—if I have made you think being something less is possible at all,” he maintains, and the words are acrid in his mouth. How has he already managed to do this so poorly? “What do you need from me, Gimli? Show me how to make amends, and I will do it.”

For long moments, Gimli merely looks at him. It is difficult to say whether he is attempting to gauge Legolas’ honesty or if he is saddened that it is required at all. “Legolas,” he says finally. “I do not want this wedding to be an act of repentance.”

It might have been kinder if Gimli had challenged him to a duel. Legolas’ hands immediately release his unlucky spouse. How is he so terrible at this, and why is it only obvious now that Gimli is irreparably bound to him?

“I-I…” But what is there to say that will not come across as disingenuous? Not trusting his fool mouth to speak, Legolas folds his hands tightly together and bows as deeply as he may from his perch on the cot, his eyes burning. His marriage braid swings into his vision, shining in the lamp- and moonlight, weightier than it should be.

When he feels hands on his chin and lifting his face up, Legolas does not resist. Gimli’s dark eyes are searching as they gaze into him, as though Legolas’ actions are a mystery he wants to unravel. “That wasnae your intent when you made the suggestion, was it?” he realizes.

Legolas gives a small shake of his head and whispers, “Nay, but I know now how it sounded.”

“Tell me what you meant.” It is not a demand. Rather, it is a plea spoken with a soft voice and eyes that gaze upon him with a desire to understand.

Like as not, he will make this worse as well, but Gimli is asking, and he cannot fathom a better way through this conversation, so he tries anyway. “I hoped you might teach me to show you how keenly I covet you, and how little your age matters. I wished to learn what you needed—” he pauses, uncertain if this might be too much of the same verbiage that had sounded so wrong to begin with, shy of the sheer _boldness_ of the sentiment “—so I might make this ceremony worthy of your long wait.”

Gimli’s breath hitches. The next thing Legolas knows, he is being folded into a tight embrace. “Forgive me for misinterpreting you,” he mutters into Legolas’ shoulder, voice wavering. “I should have known to ask, but I was blinded by my own insecurities.”

Legolas is tentative about hugging back, at first, but when Gimli does not flinch away from his touch he reciprocates with verve, his fingers splayed over the prominent muscles of his husband’s back and shoulders. He has never felt so grounded as he does in the haven of Gimli’s embrace.

“Is there any way I might help to allay them, _mellon-nîn?”_ Legolas dearly hopes this does not erase the progress they have just made. Just in case, he expounds upon the thought. “I would happily perform a thousand acts, if they could prove how much I cherish you. And then a thousand more, simply to make sure you have truly been disabused of these notions of mediocrity. I would—”

Gimli’s eyes are molten with tenderness as he kisses Legolas. There is a gratefulness to the gesture, and an affection that runs so deep and certain it rings across their bond like a bell. “You are here. That says as much as a thousand acts already,” he murmurs, bumping their foreheads together. “And you have never made me feel the lesser of our two. It is only my own fool brain which seeks to tarnish the bliss of being in your arms.”

Gimli has always been the more articulate of their two, and has it never been so obvious as right now, where a scant handful of sentences is all it takes to takes to simultaneously melt Legolas’ heart and set his pulse racing. There are rarely misunderstandings when Gimli speaks.

“Allow me to assist in your fool brain’s reeducation,” he says, nudging his husband to kiss him again. His hands trail appreciatively down Gimli’s sides, reveling in the power of his frame, the silvery radiance that he embodies. “Teach me how best to adore you, _mellon_ , and we shall take the rest in stride.”

At first Gimli looks like he is about to dismiss the request with a remark about elven dramatics, but something stops him as he looks at Legolas. Legolas replies with an affectionate ripple through their connection. He wants this opportunity to finally show his husband how much he cares to be the culmination of a century’s worth of love and longing; nothing more, and nothing less.

The large palm that skims along his neck and cups the back of his head moves slowly, but as Gimli’s thick fingers sift gently through his hair Legolas cannot help shivering from the carefully control embedded within every deliberate movement.

For a moment, they simply look at one another, and there is only the sound of the river on the other side of _Nendil’s_ hull. Between the warm light of the lamp and the cool moonlight flickering across his face as the boat sways, Gimli’s eyes become dark pools that draw him in, and in…

This new kiss is not a hungry collision of souls who have gone too long without sustenance, or a half-desperate attempt to prove their intentions, it is as molten as the bronze set into the cabin door was a few hours ago. They are languid in their explorations; there is nothing to demand their time and attention except for the morning, and that is still hours away. Legolas is as comfortable with this as one can be, with nine weeks’ worth of practice. He knows that if he pulls on Gimli’s lower lip with his teeth he will receive a warm, rumbling sound, and he knows the vibrations of that noise will set his body alight with sensitivity. He is familiar enough with the warm rush of air that accompanies the gentle parting of his husband’s lips to anticipate it eagerly, and he is no longer stunned at the texture of his tongue.

Legolas was not prepared for how all of this would feel when their souls were connected. For all that he has never taken kissing Gimli for granted, there is a heightened intimacy to their ministrants now. Now, though he cannot feel the exact sensations that he is inspiring, he can sense whenever he does something Gimli is particularly fond of. The invisible tendrils between them hum like plucked harp strings with every new movement, relaying his husband’s reactions even to things Legolas does not notice himself doing. He receives a fresh set of reactionary echoes when he tilts his head to deepen their kiss, or when his breath catches as large hands squeeze his thighs. Knowing when he has unwittingly provoked Gimli inform his guesses as he experiments with more deliberate gestures.

Legolas releases the practical workman’s braids in his husband’s beard and runs appreciative fingers through the silvery curls with their streaks of autumn red. He smiles when this earns him a low keen, savoring the sensations of trust and ardor that ripple through him. Gimli’s hair is a mass of strong, wiry coils, but the curls of his beard are made soft and pillowy from specially mixed oils that Legolas has only recently learned about. The texture is unlike anything Legolas has ever felt; he is mystified.

It is not surprising that the silver and gold in Gimli’s marriage braid keep catching the light, given the swaying of the boat. Nonetheless, it captures Legolas’ attention, and sentimentality surges within him. He cannot help reaching a reverent hand out and tracing the path of the beads. Even now, with their bond thrumming through his body, it is still hard to believe this is finally real.

When he glances up, Gimli’s gaze is as searing as fire itself. He pulls Legolas in until their chests are flush, until Legolas can feel the deep, sturdy hammering of his heart. Because he is standing between Legolas’ knees, the movement forces them wide to accommodate his powerful bulk. Legolas cannot help noticing that it is not simply their chests pressed together, but rather the full length of their torsos. The realization zings pleasantly up his spine, leaving him too preoccupied to parse whether this was purposeful or not.

This time the kiss is hungry. Not violent, not forceful, but featuring an intensity that was not there a minute ago. Though Gimli is as gentle as ever, his tongue finds Legolas’ with new purpose, and the _need_ it conveys has Legolas shuddering with a sensitivity he has never felt, exacerbated by the colliding ripples of emotion and reaction through their bond. He is acutely aware of every touch, every breath. It is the best kind of overwhelming, a whirlpool he does not mind being swallowed by.

Despite not feeling physically taxed, by the time their lips separate with a sinful _pop!_ Legolas is dazed and out of breath. There is warmth pooling in his stomach, and every nerve is sizzling. When Gimli nudges his chin up and leaves a wet kiss on his throat, he moans aloud. It is the texture of Gimli’s beard combined with the softness of his lips and tongue, Legolas thinks. How is anyone supposed to weather so much stimulation at once without falling apart?

He feels his husband smile against his neck as he gives it a quick little peck. Giggles are shaking his great shoulders, and he gives Legolas’ thighs—which he has braced his hands on—an affectionate squeeze. “I didnae realize you were so receptive, Legolas,” he says, and while his voice is teasing it is also a deep, rich rumble that Legolas feels in his bones.

At this point Legolas would likely be receptive to a gust of wind, but he still manages, “That is a lie, you knew full well.”

“Not so, I merely guessed.” He does not seem to realize the irony of pressing another full kiss to Legolas’ throat. This time there is an unexpected nipping of teeth, and Legolas shudders. How could Gimli guess at something Legolas did not even know about himself?

Well, regardless of how, the results are… undeniable. This is the most aroused Legolas has ever been. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are warm as if he is standing in the summer sun, and every time Gimli’s torso shifts against his…

 _“Mellon,”_ he breathes, folding an arm on his husband’s powerful shoulder and leaning against it to steady himself. He gulps the cool night air, hoping that it might clear the haziness clouding his mind. Is it normal to feel this way after simply kissing?

“Yes, Legolas?” asks Gimli pleasantly. He has a supportive arm wrapped around Legolas’ waist while the other hand caresses Legolas’ leg. Even through the fabric of his clothing, the touch seems to pleasantly burn. Would it leave pinkened trails of tingling sensation on his bare skin? Is it too soon to ask Gimli to try? “Is there something you wanted?”

For someone who was so unsure of his abilities at the start of this, Gimli seems quite confident now. Legolas cannot think of anything he might have done to help with that. All he has managed to do is react to what Gimli has done for him. In theory, he knows that does not have to be a negative thing, but this is a far cry from his assertion to learn how to properly adore his partner. With as many layers as Gimli is wearing—even in times of peace, dwarves adorn themselves with thick leather jerkins, and at least two layers under that—Legolas cannot even determine if he is aroused.

Besides, thinking too much about his own erection is—

“Yes.” Legolas ignores the heat in his cheeks and straightens his shoulders. He threads his fingers through those on his leg and brings them up to his lips, kisses each one without breaking eye contact. “I want you to tell me what I can do for you.”

At first Gimli does not seem to know what to say, his lips slightly parted and a heartbeat echoing loudly across their connection. Then he softens, and his thumb strokes along Legolas’ as, slowly, he pushes him to lay back on the cot. Between pulling off their boots and Legolas’—erm, current situation—it takes some maneuvering, but then they are both laying on their sides, their hands still clasped.

Legolas expects Gimli to take his hand and place it somewhere, or to ask him for something. He does not. Instead, he simply looks upon Legolas as though he is a thousand leagues away, instead of lying beside him.

It is only then that Legolas realizes Gimli is stalling because he does not have an answer. How could he, when it has been so long since he has had a partner, and his body has changed so much?

Perhaps they are not so different in this after all.

Legolas levers himself up on his elbow and only releases his husband’s hand so he can cup one whiskery cheek and lean over to kiss him softly. He still does not know what he is doing, and he is still afraid of making another mistake, but seeing this vulnerability in Gimli empowers him to care for his partner anyway. It is becoming increasingly clear that this was never going to be a graceful endeavor, for either of them, and understanding that is more of a comfort than a disappointment. They will find their way through this together, and the doing of it shall bring them closer.

The gentle mashing of lips slips gradually back into the heat and intensity of earlier as they both regain their confidence. Legolas tangles his fingers into his husband’s glorious silver hair as he leans in to lick the thick tendons of his neck, and his copycat maneuver is rewarded with a quiet moan. Gimli’s skin is so soft and pale here, this secret place typically hidden by his beard, and now Legolas has the privilege of becoming acquainted with it. When he experiments with a few nips of his teeth, as Gimli had for him earlier, the moan he receives is much throatier, and accompanied by a tilting of the head to give him better access. His skin is so delicate that even those little bites are leaving faint red circles. It is fascinating, and stirs within him a nearly competitive urge to make them last, secret marks that belong only to him.

“May I go further?” Legolas asks, tracing one of the red circles and then collar of the leather jerkin with his fingertips. It is a location none shall ever see, beyond their two, but instead of being an uncomfortable reminder of the century of secrecy they have already endured there is something exciting about the privacy of this. Perhaps it is because it feels like a quiet defiance they could have been doing all along.

Gimli’s breath catches. “Aye,” he says hoarsely—and from just the one word, Legolas can already hear a thickness to his accent that has not been there in decades. “Ye dinnae need to ask about that sort of thing, Legolas. It…” He pauses, either uncertain of how to phrase it or shy of what to say. “I find it enjoyable.”

Ah—the latter, then. Which means Gimli’s accent becomes far thicker when he is flustered.

It is so endearing that Legolas smiles, but before he can remark upon it, Gimli has undone the closures on the jerkin in a few deft movements. It opens unto the embroidered tunic he is wearing underneath, deep Durin blue in the mixed light of lamp and moon, but in so doing it also exposes his clavicle and the juncture where his neck and shoulder meet—more than enough space to leave a few secret marks. It is also more open skin than Legolas has seen of Gimli since the rustic bathing in creeks and streams they did during the days of the Fellowship.

He is not certain why this sight makes his cheeks hot when he knows they will both be naked by the end of this, all he knows is that it does.

How is it possible for a clavicle to look so strong and enticing?

To distract them both from the unexpected heaviness of this exposure, Legolas once again kisses his husband, and for a time they simply lose themselves in one another. Gimli’s hands make short work of the belt around Legolas’ hips and slide up behind his silvery green tunic, the only layer he has. Calluses rasp over his ribs and across his stomach, and while they do not trail fire every hair on Legolas’ body rises eagerly to meet them.

Legolas grunts and pants as smiling lips skim over his jaw, and his husband’s loose beard compounds the sensation. He has never felt so much like an instrument in the talented hands of a master musician, for is it not so that they are making music together right now? Though it is below either of their hearing, the strands of their connected souls ring out with every newly echoed sentiment.

It takes him a while to remember why Gimli is so exposed to begin with, but then Legolas sets to his task with a will. He begins with soft kisses and nips, as before, exploring along this newly revealed skin and reveling in its delicate, satiny texture while his husband arches and breathes unevenly beside him. The first time he bites he receives a groan unlike anything he has heard from Gimli thus far, and the hot hand inside his tunic is suddenly a vice on his hip. When he soothes the spot with his tongue, there is a shuddering breath, and he does not recognize the emotions rippling across their bond.

“Are you alright, _mellon-nîn?”_ he asks with concern, lifting his head and brushing stray silver from his beloved’s face. “Was that too much?”

“Nay,” comes the delightful, shiver-inducing growl, “It was perfect.” Gimli’s eyes flash as he drags Legolas in for a passionate kiss that makes swift work of his concerns. When Gimli’s teeth snag Legolas’ lower lip, the action goes straight to his cock.

Legolas swings his leg over and rises to straddle Gimli. Somewhat unwittingly, he has coordinated it so that their hips grind together when he sits back, and it is then that he discovers his husband is also hard. Sparks dance down his spine and settle in his stomach as he tips his head back and rolls his hips against the bulge, gasping at each grinding collision. As Gimli raises his own hips to meet him, his hands are hot as they grip Legolas’ thighs.

Then there is a sharp intake of air, and the next thing Legolas knows he has been lifted clear in the air, his legs dangling.

A cold spear of panic lances through him as he registers the pain on his husband’s face. “Gimli, I am so sorry, I did not—”

“Not you,” Gimli grunts. He does not seem to notice that he is still holding Legolas aloft. Dwarven strength is a marvel all its own. He shifts his hips a bit to the side, and his face darkens as he grimaces. “Just old age.”

It is difficult to decide how to feel as he is set experimentally down across the thick muscles of his husband’s thighs. Worry wars with selfish disappointment as Legolas gazes helplessly at his partner, but he dares not move from where he has been placed for fear of exacerbating the discomfort Gimli is already in. Gimli’s big hands are hovering on either side of him, but he has not yet been snatched back up again.

“I do not have to—” Legolas starts.

“You might have to, because I dinnae think I can be on top.” The response is spoken through partially gritted teeth, and the apples of his cheeks are flushed bright.

Legolas licks his lips. “Is there any way I can help, _mellon?”_

“I donae suppose elven healing has an answer to brittle joints and frequently pinched nerves?” It is meant to be more banter than serious question, but all Legolas hears is bitterness. Gimli lets out a hard breath and looks at the wooden ceiling of the sloop’s cabin. “It is already subsiding. I should be able t’move again in a moment or two.”

Careful not to shift his weight, Legolas takes one of Gimli’s hands and threads their fingers together. He supposes he must have been aware of the potential risks of having an older partner, on some level—but there again, Gimli has such strength and vitality that most days it seems as though the only thing that has aged about him is his hair and the lines around his eyes. Why would Legolas have assumed Gimli is hindered by anything when he does not act like it?

After a minute or so, Gimli says tiredly, “Alright, ye can move.”

Legolas gingerly climbs off his legs, but only releases his hand when he gets an idea. “Can you sit up?”

“Of course I can,” Gimli grumbles, yet even as he cooperates there is curiosity in his demeanor. He watches as Legolas arranges the cot’s single pillow and blanket into a makeshift backrest against the wall of the boat, and then scoots back against them at Legolas’ gesture. “What is this meant to accomplish?”

“Perhaps nothing,” Legolas allows. Moving with care, he slips his leg over his husband’s thighs again and settles most of his weight on his own knees. He transfers it to the balls of his feet as he sits back and looks to Gimli expectantly. “Is this bearable?”

“Aye,” Gimli says as he realizes what this is meant to be. He gestures to the space between their torsos, nearly a foot. “But it is hardly personal enough. Would you move up?”

“If I do that, there might be too much pressure on your pelvis.”

“I dinnae care, Legolas, come here.”

Legolas does. When he leans too far forward he has to brace his hands on the wall, but for the most part he thinks he can reliably keep his weight off Gimli’s joints. “Is this still bearable? I shall not be offended if you prefer a different position.”

Gimli answers by way of pulling him in and capturing his lips. He kisses as though he cannot forgive himself for being mortal, and this is a way to distract himself from the humiliation of his body having different needs than he is used to. He kisses as though he does not think Legolas will notice any of this—or, more likely, that he hopes Legolas will pretend not to notice.

It is only when the kiss ends with both of them panting heavily that Legolas determines how best to phrase his objection to this. _“Mellon-nîn,”_ he murmurs, leaning back and gently touching his husband’s face, “You said you did not wish for this to be an act of repentance.”

At first Gimli opens his mouth to argue, but there is nothing he could say that would not be hypocritical. Realizing this, his mouth shuts again, and the fractiousness of his initial reaction fades into diffidence. Her averts his eyes as he lets out a hard breath, inadvertently shaking Legolas’ hand from his face. A helpless bitterness radiates from him.

Legolas’ chest aches. There is no altering Gimli’s age, and there is no obscuring how it affects him. There is no turning back time so that they may marry sooner, just as there is no changing the fact they are bound to one another now.

“If you will allow it of me.” Legolas ignores how hot his cheeks and ears are once again becoming as he smooths his hands over the broad expanse of his husband’s chest, just inside the opened jerkin. “I would gladly show you that I desire you just as much now as I ever have.”

Gimli’s gaze snaps back to him. He does not have to say it aloud for his incredulity to be communicated. Legolas sits back on his heels and his hands once again drop to his lap as he realizes that touch is not fully welcome right now.

It hurts to see his husband so self-deprecating, but it also goads Legolas to prove him wrong. “You are yourself, _mellon-nîn.”_ While it is the crux of his perspective, he can already see that this is not enough. Legolas swallows and takes a moment to ensure his mouth will form the proper words this time. “Gimli, I did not fall in love with you for your beauty,” he says, slowly and deliberately, his neck and face burning. Though he has never hidden the depth of his affection from Gimli, he has never spoken it so plainly before. Until now, he has never needed to. “And I have not become disenchanted because your body has changed with the years—I am as enamored by your evolution as I am with the clever mind and strong heart that initially captured me.”

Gimli softens despite himself. His affection wars with his doubt in fits and spurts across their bond. “Legolas…”

But Legolas is not done. He tilts his head as he regards his partner. “In fact, I might wonder how you are not utterly bored by my own ever-same visage. Does it not bother you that I am never different to look upon?”

“Of course not, _âzyungelê,”_ says Gimli pointedly.

He nods at the endearment and everything it so neatly implies. “You do not mind because of your love of me, or because you find me fair,” he says, reaching once again for his husband’s hand. “Why can I not feel the same?”

There is nothing Gimli can say to that without being hypocritical, either. Legolas can see that the realization chafes, and he rubs the knuckles of the hand he is holding as he gives his partner time to adjust.

It is only when he sees Gimli resign himself to a lack of decent retorts that Legolas brings the hand he is holding up to his lips. “Allow me to show you, _mellon,”_ he murmurs, cradling his beloved’s hand against his heart. “I cannot promise to be skilled, but I shall be sincere.”

He is not expecting this request to result in in being hauled close for a kiss so fierce and thorough that it leaves him trembling. His cheeks tingle from the texture of Gimli’s beard as they separate, and he has to brace himself on _Nendil’s_ wall to avoid pitching too far forward.

“Gimli,” he says breathlessly—only to groan as Gimli takes advantage of his leaning and plants a series of kisses along the line of his throat. His body buzzes with sensation, so much so that he only belatedly notices the hands that also slip into his tunic, pushing it up his torso.

“Take it off?” is the gently muttered suggestion. Legolas feels clumsy as he complies, though not because of any amount of self-consciousness on his part. Elves are not shy of nudity as a general rule, and Legolas is quite comfortable within his own skin—nay, it is that this is an opportunity to show off to his new husband, and he does not know how to do it properly. He peels his tunic up over his head in the same way anyone might, and that hardly seems coquettish enough to be alluring.

Yet an appreciative gaze sweeps over him all the same, sending a shiver of delight down his spine, so he must have done something right. There is a heartbreaking amount of reverence in the way Gimli touches him, lightly trailing his powerful fingers along Legolas’ chest and sides as though he expects he shall be called off.

“I require little,” he mumbles, watching his hands rather than looking up at Legolas’ face. “And I suspect I will require even less now. To that end, I am content with the sincerity of your presence.”

That feels altogether too much like an extension of using kissing as a distraction. Legolas does not interfere with the exploratory touches on his torso, but he does duck his head down and press a long, tender kiss to his husband’s lips. Pressing their foreheads together afterward, he says, “And I am not.” Gently, he guides the open jerkin from Gimli’s shoulders and drops it to the cabin floor. “I want to show you, _mellon-nîn_. Will you grant me the privilege?”

For a moment Gimli simply looks at him, stalled. Nervousness flutters between them. When Legolas leans that little bit forward and slowly kisses his upper lip, Gimli utters a sigh. “If you really wish to tend to an old dwarf—”

“I wish to tend to my husband.” They both quiver at hearing the term aloud. Will saying it ever become commonplace, or will calling Gimli what he now is always feel like an act of defiance? Giddy and emboldened, Legolas prods, “The question is, does my husband wish to be tended to?”

Something in Gimli’s body language relaxes as he gives in. Legolas feels it the instant before he leans a little closer and confesses quietly, “Aye, he does. But—”

“Then I would be delighted to assist.” He spreads his palm over the embroidered fabric above his partner’s heart. “Show me where to begin, _mellon.”_

With a bashful, quavering breath, Gimli’s head moves wordlessly to the side, exposing the mark Legolas has already left upon him. All told, their relative familiarity with this is a good place to begin. When Legolas lowers his head and presses his lips to one powerful tendon, the hands on him tighten—not restraining, but rather for stability. Clinging.

Legolas rubs a comforting hand up a broadly muscled arm and nuzzles the spot he has just kissed. He wishes to offer more tangible reassurances, but his other arm is preoccupied with keeping him from leaning too hard against Gimli. He continues slowly, easing them both back into this intimacy. Bit by bit, the tension drains from his husband as he licks and kisses from the pressure point under his ear down to his clavicle. By the time he starts biting again Gimli’s head is tilted back against the wall and his muscles twitch as he tries to keep himself from moving too much. The moans Legolas inspires are throaty and acute, and with each one that vibrates through him his cock throbs and strains against his leggings, hanging heavy between his thighs.

That is also about the time Legolas counts how many dark red marks he has left on his husband’s skin, and flushes with embarrassment. Is there such a thing as too many of these?

“Um, _mellon_ , I—” The words are promptly forgotten when his free hand is shyly guided under the hem of his husband’s tunic and undershirt and to the erection they are obscuring. Legolas’ mouth goes dry. Even through trousers, he can tell Gimli is proportioned differently. Shorter, for one.

Much thicker, for another.

This objective evidence that his actions have had a positive impact on his partner is as bolstering as it is stunning. Legolas still does not feel particularly competent—but he must be doing something right, because Gimli is as hard as Legolas himself feels, and he lets out an impossibly deep groan when Legolas palms his erection and softly squeezes it through the fabric. With this sound comes a powerful surge of emotion from across their bond that sets Legolas’ every nerve ablaze.

Now he is flushed for an entirely different reason.

Before he can decide whether saying them is a good idea, the words are falling from his lips. “Could you—that is, may I…?” Diffidence clogs his throat and makes the rest impossible to say, but he tries to illustrate what he means by touching the waist of Gimli’s trousers.

His husband’s breath catches, but just before he pulls Legolas in for a fervent kiss, he lets out a delicious growl of, “You may.”

It is awkward, blindly unfastening his partner’s trousers and shimmying his hand behind them, particularly without breaking the kiss. Gimli ends up having to help, but being able to finally touch his husband is reward all its own. Gimli is silky and hot in his palm, nearly too thick for his fingers to fully curl around, and the strangled whimper Legolas hears when he experiments with moving his hand—the potent shock of sensation that darts down his spine from their connection—has a little moan leaking from Legolas’ throat as well. Gimli swallows the sound with an urgent kiss that thoroughly divides Legolas’ attention. His heart is beating wildly against his ribcage, and it is all he can do to keep himself from molding around his husband and rolling against him as he did earlier.

When the rough pad of a thumb finds Legolas’ nipple, sensation sizzles down his spine, and he temporarily forgets who and where he is. The sound that leaves him is unlike any noise he has ever made. There is no way he is capable of such gusto.

Yet, apparently it is him, because his husband has just breathed his name as though he has never witnessed anything more attractive, and it is his husband’s erection that just pulsed against his palm.

Nobody else takes these reactions as permission to sink his teeth into his partner’s lower lip, or tighten his grip on the cock in his hand—and, likewise, nobody else is rewarded with the shuddering moan those actions inspire. It is, unequivocally, Legolas.

Even now, in this uncoordinated medley of motion as he splits his attention between so many sources of stimuli and the logistics of keeping himself held aloft, Legolas has room to be awed that this is real. He is vulnerable in his ignorance, dazed with arousal, weak from the sheer force of the love surging within him. He has never felt so lost—but for all that this is overwhelming in its newness, he is secure in Gimli’s arms. His trust in Gimli is implicit, and his willingness to make a fool of himself if it will make his husband feel loved is absolute. With Gimli, it does not feel like a sacrifice at all, for he knows that it shall never be used against him—and, if the way Gimli has trusted him to allay his deep-seated fears about his needs and how his age has impacted them is indicative of anything, then he must feel the same.

And it is then, in the heady fog of faith and adoration, that Legolas feels it. If the initial establishment of their bond could be likened to an opening of the floodgates, then this is the decimation of an entire dam. Legolas’ sense of connectedness with his husband is now exponentially _more._ Where before he could only sense rippling suggestions of emotion and reaction, now bold, clear waves of sentiment wash over him as they travel across the strongly reinforced tendrils of connection. There is no need for things such as conjecture when there are such full levels of disclosure. He does not need to guess at how his husband is feeling, he _knows._

Legolas is not certain what he expected two layers of soul-binding connection to feel like, but it is not this. The sudden heightening of their connection leaves him sagging against the wall he is still propped against, sweaty forehead pressed into his arm as he gulps for air. There is an intimate soreness within him that has nothing to do with bodily comforts, a sensation he can only describe as an overexertion of spiritual muscle. Before him, Gimli has also slumped back against the blanket and pillow, and his cock is softened somewhat.

“Gimli,” Legolas gasps as he releases his partner’s erection and slips his hand out from his trousers to touch his side. _“Mellon-nîn,_ are you alright?”

Gimli’s great chest heaves from the force of his breathing. With some effort, he opens his eyes and stares at Legolas with astonishment. Though there does not seem to be a method for discrete mental communication, the potency of the emotions that slosh across their newly reinforced bond are enough to determine that they have both come to the same conclusion.

“Doesnae elven marriage require a physical joining?” pants Gimli, though at this point the dialogue is redundant.

“Apparently, the definition is flexible,” says Legolas faintly.

Apparently it is, because neither of them can argue with the results. There is no questioning that their bond has been deepened.

There is a small silence as they look at one another in silent question. If all they wanted was to be married in the dwarven and elven ways, they have unequivocally managed it. Considering the massive emotional labor it took to even get this far, would pushing further than they strictly must be more burden or benefit?

They do not need to speak to understand what each other wants. By the time their lips meet, their answer is obvious. They kiss in equal parts passion and joy, and Legolas is not the only one reveling in how clearly they are able to share with one another. With a connection like this, he can understand Gimli nearly as well as himself.

If he had not wanted to belong to Gimli for so many years, this absolute exposure might be terrifying. Now, there is a triumph to being so irreversibly intertwined. They will not be separated again, because they cannot be. Even if they are not physically near one another, there will always be his husband’s presence in the corner of his mind, always the tendrils stretching between them, leading him home.

At Legolas’ urgings, Gimli divests himself of his tunic and undershirt. The exposure of his broad, well-muscled chest and the silvery whorls of hair that cover it makes Legolas’ mouth go dry, and not simply because it is more of Gimli than he has seen in over a century. The muscles that ripple beneath Legolas’ exploring, admiring fingers are so rigid as to be stone, radiating strength. Small wonder Gimli found it so easy to lift him earlier!

With one last, lingering kiss to his husband’s lips, Legolas succumbs to the urge to scoot back and lick down that powerful chest. He savors the deep, thudding heartbeat he hears as his lips graze over the bulge of a pectoral, and sensation shoots down his spine at the sharp catch of breath he receives for tracing a small, delicate nipple with the tip of his tongue. Gimli radiates heat like a hearth, but Legolas can feel raised skin everywhere he touches.

There is something truly empowering about being able to affect someone like this, about rendering someone so mighty into a mess of gasping moans and hands that grip onto him as if he is the only stable thing in this world. Legolas slips his arms around Gimli’s waist and nuzzles his sternum, plants a kiss in amongst the silver curls. He smiles at the muscular arms that settle over him, shivers in delight when warm fingers caress the shell of his ear.

“As affectionate as a cat,” comes the warm burr from above his head. “Who might have guessed?”

“If I am a cat, then you are the sunshine,” Legolas says primly, kissing his torso again. “I can hardly be blamed for basking in your light.”

He did not mean for his remark to be taken as anything other than banter, but it is met with a tender silence. The emotions he can feel through their bond reveal that Gimli is internalizing this reply far more thoroughly than Legolas anticipated, though none of it feels negative. He lifts his head to see his partner’s face, and is promptly cupped by the jaw and drawn in for a deep, toe-curling kiss. He melts into the touch, heat pooling within his stomach. Though it is not the most ardent kiss they have shared this evening, it leaves him lightheaded, his cock aching and a moan curled in the back of his throat.

Acting on a sudden urge, he hooks his fingers suggestively into the waist of his husband’s trousers. “May I?”

He receives a wordless nod and another kiss that steals his breath away, but the affection welling between them suggests that Gimli is far more tender than apprehensive. Legolas is developing the impression that Gimli’s past experiences trend more towards tending to others than being tended to himself. It is devastating to think that his husband has not been properly coveted in the past, but it also strengthens his drive to do an admirable job of it now.

He also cannot help himself.

After leaving the trousers on the floor with the rest of the discarded clothing, Legolas’ heart skips a beat to see the full beauty of his husband before him. He licks his lips, suddenly and acutely grateful for the permanence of elven memory. Gimli is thick, brawny limbs and silver dusted muscle, broad shoulders and big hands. He reclines against the pillow and blanket with all the majesty of a king sitting his throne.

His erection, flushed and thick, makes Legolas’ mouth water.

It is not instinct as much as impulse that has him ducking down and dragging his tongue along the length of his husband’s cock, but the _moan_ he receives, strangled and guttural, is what bids him continue. Gimli is even more searing on Legolas’ tongue than he was in his palm, and the musk of pheromones that surround him as he laves at the engorged head of his spouse’s erection is intoxicating. He finds himself moaning simply from kneeling before his beloved like this, bowed and vulnerable and yet strangely empowered by the huffs and groans above his head.

He leaves heavy kisses down the underside of Gimli’s cock with generous swipes of his tongue, and Gimli quakes. There is a muffled thud as his silver head hits the wall of the cabin. Potent waves of pleasure and emotion emanate from him, inadvertent reassurances that, despite his ignorance, Legolas is clearly doing something right.

Good to know, because he is enjoying himself.

“Legolas,” Gimli gasps. If anything, between the two of them he is the most vulnerable. “Legolas…”

When he takes gratuitous squeezes of the inside of those thick, muscular thighs, there is no real reaction, but his hand is bumped away when he fondles his husband’s balls. Fortunately, the rejection does not dampen the shuddering moan Legolas receives when he works as much of Gimli’s cock into his mouth as will reasonably fit. He tastes something sharp and salty at the back of his throat as he swirls his tongue around the silky flesh. Gimli shudders, his erection pulsing against Legolas’ tongue, and Legolas groans at the latest wave of pleasured reaction that washes over him through their bond.

That is when Gimli grabs a fistful of his hair. A pleasant spark dances down Legolas’ veins as his hair is pulled, but his moan becomes a sound of confusion as he is pulled even further, away from the erection entirely. He can sense no injury or displeasure in Gimli.

Before he can ask—which is just as well, because his lips and tongue feel clumsy in the sudden empty chasm of his mouth—Gimli is panting, “I cannae—if ye continue, I willnae…”

Legolas blinks, baffled. He has enough context to know what his husband is trying to say, but he fails to see how it is an issue. Is eventual gratification not the point of sex?

“I havenae been able to reach you this entire time, you must be aching.”

Well, yes, but… _“Mellon,”_ he manages. “I—”

He is cut off by a kiss that does nothing to ease the ache between his legs. “Take off those damn leggings and come here,” his husband instructs in a husky murmur, and Legolas shivers as he scrambles to comply. Kicking off his last remaining article of clothing is easy enough, and climbing back into his husband’s lap is even easier—but it is after that, when he is perched over Gimli’s thighs and they are looking over each other, that he stalls.

It is not that he minds being naked, or even the idea of being touched. Rather, it is—

“Now, show me how ye like it.” Gimli covers the back of Legolas’ hand with his own and guides it to his weeping, unattended erection. Even the touch of his own hand causes Legolas’ breath to hitch.

His heart beats hard as he licks his lips, gaze flicking between their hands and his spouse’s face as his cheeks and the tips of his ears burn. He does not move.

It only takes Gimli a few seconds to catch on. Then he lets go of Legolas’ hand and instead cups his jaw in one hand. “Legolas, how do you not know?” he asks in dismay. “Is this something elves dinnae allow?”

He swallows and gives a small shake of his head, even as he holds onto one burly forearm, tracing the shape of it with his fingertips. “It is a matter of memory,” he says softly. “Elves do not forget, _mellon_. Not even fantasies of what might never come to pass.”

“How does one avoid fantasies? Do they nae come upon you unbidden?” Gimli sounds impressed.

Legolas looks away. “Perhaps they would have, if had given myself any point of reference,” he mumbles. “I deemed that ignorance was safer than…” He cannot finish the sentence. From this side of events—the triumph of finally being married, of having his love before him now—saying it aloud feels as though it would be needlessly hurtful to both of them.

Gimli’s side of their bond grows cold with realization all the same. His hand drops from Legolas’ face and to one of his thighs. Steadying, though at this point it is unclear who needs it more. “Then ye just ignored your passion until it went away?”

“Until these last few weeks, it has served me well enough.” Though he speaks, he still cannot bring himself to look Gimli in the eye. Instead he gazes upon the complex weave of the marriage braid draped over Gimli’s shoulder, tracing the path of the many intertwined plaits. “Not knowing what I should yearn for made the tradeoff for mental wellbeing an easy one.”

“I suppose it would,” says Gimli faintly. He is beside himself as he regards Legolas, wonder and sorrow warring with one another for dominance across their connection. “But that is a ruthless arithmetic to inflict upon yourself, Legolas.”

Legolas shakes his head. “For me, this… sort of stimulation,” he says, gesturing self-consciously between them. Against all reason, his cock is still firmly erect, though at this point the ache is considerably less. His cheeks warm at the juxtaposition of this conversation with such stubborn arousal. “Is not a necessity. I am among those who could have gone without, despite—erm, current evidence to the contrary.”

For whatever reason, this inspires a soft chuckle from Gimli. “Do ye not hate when your body makes a liar of you?” he asks with a smile that would have been amused, if not for the poignant level of empathy in his demeanor.

That is right. Who would know better about these paradoxes than one who is adjusting to the evolution of his own body?

Legolas huffs a little laugh of his own, more sheepish than mortified. “It is incredibly inconvenient,” he agrees. When Gimli opens his arms, Legolas gladly leans into them. It is somehow so much easier to breathe when he is resting his cheek on top of his beloved’s head and there is a big, gentle hand rubbing his back. He lets out a sigh and sags into the embrace, basking in the care and affection emanating from his spouse.

However, then he feels Gimli’s thumb stroking small circles into his hipbone, causing the hair on his body to stand on end as he resists the urge to shiver. “So the question becomes,” he says, and Legolas cannot help but notice that his accent has become prominent again. “Do ye wish to continue, or call it a night?”

Legolas stomach flips—and just like that, his attention is pulled back to his unattended cock, which is still uncompromisingly hard. For all that the inquiry is reasonable, given their most recent conversation, the idea of stopping now is potently untenable.

After so many years of steering himself away from untoward research and thoughts, Legolas is not going to stop until he knows everything he has been missing. Just because he can survive without sex does not mean that, in this moment, he is incapable of desiring it so keenly that the very thought of what comes after this has his pulse racing.

Swallowing and licking his lips, Legolas leans back enough to look his husband in the eye, and dares to say, “At the risk of invalidating my own earlier assertions, I would very much like to continue.”

Gimli gifts him with a grin that is as delighted as it is suggestive, just before pulling Legolas in for a kiss that immediately reignites the urgency of his ardor. He relishes the rumbling sound Gimli makes in the back of his throat when Legolas bites his lower lip and tugs, and he moans when one of those beautiful hands takes a fistful of his hair and pulls his head to the side to expose his throat. Chills roll over him at the texture of kiss-swollen lips and facial hair on his skin.

He is not expecting to feel Gimli’s fingers wrapping around his erection. He thinks he somehow forgot how to count to two, for it does not feel as though Gimli should have enough hands for this. He certainly does not have the cognition to figure things out now, with the roughened texture of his husband’s hand on the delicate flesh of his cock.

Though his eyes are open, Legolas loses all awareness of what he is seeing as he is touched in firm, sure strokes. It is all he can do to keep himself safely aloft, his arm braced on the wall above Gimli’s head as he trembles, his head still angled to the side in a strong grip. “Gimli, _mellon…”_ he groans, helpless to the sudden onslaught of sensation.

“Yes, _âzyungelê?”_ His husband’s breath is hot, and when he speaks the faint grazing of his lips and beard on Legolas’ throat set every nerve alight. Hearing the dear voice of his love using such a heartfelt endearment is powerful enough on its own, but Gimli’s voice is gravelly with promise, and it is that which has Legolas moaning. It should not be physically possible for a person’s voice to be so provocative. Or perhaps it is a combination of Gimli’s voice and the waves of sentiment that are rushing over from his side of their bond? At this point Legolas cannot distinguish between what is being tangibly communicated and what is not.

The massive hand on his cock squeezes, and the other experiments with a tug of his hair. Legolas whimpers. How do other people survive such sensory overload? “You have nae answered, Legolas,” Gimli reminds him, his tone nearly conversational despite how deliciously husky it has gotten. He leaves a particularly wet kiss on Legolas’ neck, and Legolas shudders. “Is there something you would like me to do?”

No matter how many times he blinks, he cannot remember how to use his eyes. All he knows is the nipping of teeth under his jaw, the hand in his hair, and the way his erection throbs in his husband’s capable grip. There is a tension slowly coiling in his navel, a tremendously beautiful ache panging at the base of his cock. _“Mellon,_ please,” he moans, though in truth he does not know what, exactly, he is asking for. _“Please.”_

“So soon,” comes his husband’s gorgeous burr in his ear, followed by a soft bite to his earlobe. His fantastically callused hand is starting to move faster, and though they are surrounded by wooden planks Legolas swears he sees stars. “You dinnae want to wait?”

His hips are jerking into Gimli’s fist—when did he start doing that? _“Gimli,”_ he sobs.

“That’s it, Legolas _,_ I have you,” he murmurs, even as he uses his hold on Legolas’ hair to tug his head in the other direction. Legolas cries out as the sensations of tongue and teeth and beard wash over him anew, exacerbated by the bolts of pleasure shooting down his spine from this new angle on his hair. “My beautiful husband, shining in the moonlight. Finish for me, _âzyungelê.”_

Legolas does not know if it is the physical provocation, or the warm adoration echoing across their bond, or hearing all of those words in Gimli’s deep voice, or some combination of it all, but the result is the same. Everything in him seems to freeze—then, with a shattering moan, all the tension in him unwinds like a spring. He comes undone, and undone, and undone; every time he thinks he has been wrung out the rough texture of his husband’s palm commands a new wave of shuddering pleasure, and Legolas’ body is helpless to resist.

In the aftermath Legolas slumps, boneless and breathing raggedly, against the arm he has braced on the wall. Everything is quaking, but warmth is seeping down his limbs as though he has drunk an elixir. _“Mellon,”_ he gasps.

“I am here.” A conspicuously dry hand strokes his heaving side. When Legolas manages to focus his eyes upon him, he finds his husband’s gaze utterly molten. Gimli maintains eye contact as he licks a long stripe through the semen coating his knuckles.

The sound that leaks from Legolas’ throat is breathless and eager, and his partially flagged erection twitches in interest. Is that normal?

Gimli’s eyes flick down as he notices this, and then Legolas’ whole mouth goes dry as his husband smirks. How is it possible for someone to look so powerful with semen splashed over their chest and stomach? “Lower yourself?” murmurs Gimli, voice husky. “There is something I want to test.”

Enraptured, Legolas immediately goes from standing on his knees to sitting back onto his heels. This sets their torsos farther apart, but it does give him space as he ducks to the side and offers one of their discarded articles of clothing for Gimli to clean himself off. Then the fabric is being tossed to the side and Legolas’ kneeling legs are being nudged further apart. His hips are tugged closer by searing hands. A sharp bolt of sensation lances through him when their erections bump together, but it seems to be incidental, because Gimli does not draw further attention to it.

“Can you still stay balanced?”

It takes longer than it should for Legolas to understand what he is being asked, so distracted is he by that one incidental touch, but then he stands up on his knees again. The wider stance is harder to maintain without sliding outwards when he stands up on his knees, though ultimately it feels doable. He experiments with leaning his arm against the wall from this new proximity and nods. He is rewarded with a kiss that severely tests his resolve in this matter, but he remains, even when it goes longer than either of them intended. By the time their lips separate, Legolas has regained enough of his faculties to understand the love and desire he is seeing in his husband’s beautiful dark eyes.

“Not too much so far?” asks Gimli, reaching up and passing a thumb over his kiss-swollen bottom lip. His eyes crinkle at the corners in a tender smile as Legolas kisses the pad of his finger.

“Nay,” he says, though his voice is hardly more than a whisper. This is overwhelming, but that does not mean it is too much, or that he wishes to stop. He _wants_ _this_ , and he wants to see it through to the end. Whatever Gimli has in mind, he knows he is going to enjoy it.

“Let me know if that changes.” His fingers rub along the shell of Legolas’ ear affectionately, inspiring another wave of rippling sensitivity.

Legolas doubts that will happen, but he nods all the same. Then he ducks down and captures his husband’s lips in his own, relishing in their closeness and the warm haze of emotions sloshing between them. Now that he has experienced this level of intimacy, he does not know if he could readily give it up.

Strange, though, that he is batted gently away when he reaches out to tend to his partner’s arousal.

“You must be aching,” he whispers, and he can see the callback to earlier, when their positions were reversed, is not lost on his husband. He is hoping Gimli will see that he has a similar drive to offer assistance.

“Aye, but not just yet,” Gimli replies, giving him a kiss to show his gratitude over being thought of. “There is something I would rather wait for, if you are willing.”

The hands that travel up his thighs and rove over his rear are exploratory, and the rasp of their calluses against his skin raises the skin on his arms. When they squeeze, Legolas offers a grunt of approval.

His breath catches when a thick index finger prods between his cheeks. His face and the tops of his ears grow hot, and he has to break the kiss to lean their foreheads together, breathing unevenly.

“Are you alright?” rumbles Gimli gently. His hands have retreated to simply petting, instead of prodding.

“I am,” he insists, though this earns him a skeptical look. “I was simply surprised, by…” He leans back against those talented hands—quite tellingly, in his opinion, though he does augment the motion with an encouraging nudge across their bond. Just before leaning in to mash their lips together again, he summarizes his sentiments with a, “Keep going.”

Except, Gimli does not. He allows himself to be kissed, and he does tease with firm squeezes, but he does not follow up on his earlier nonverbal offer.

That is around the time Legolas registers the amused patience radiating from his husband’s side of their connection, and draws back. “I cannot help noticing you seem to be waiting for something, _mellon-nîn.”_

“And with me so subtle. The keen observational skills of the elves are hard at work, I see.” At Legolas’ unimpressed huff, he grins. “I did not take you for the impatient sort.”

“How could you, when you have not taken me at all?” It is only after the retort has left his lips that he realizes what it _sounds like._ Gimli raises his eyebrows, and everything goes hot. The tips of his ears must be smoking. “Um. That came out differently than I intended.”

With a slow-spreading smirk and a particularly hard squeeze of Legolas’ rear, Gimli murmurs, “Is that so? It sounded perfectly well-spoken to me.”

His voice is gravelly again. Legolas can already feel his limbs going weak. Nonetheless, for the sake of continuing the banter and the mesmerizing glitter in his husband’s dark eyes, he manages to reply, “Yet I still do not see you moving to act.”

“I would, but it seems my husband has made himself at home in my lap. I dinnae want to be impolite.”

Gimli’s eyes are crinkling in mirth, and that air of amused patience is still about him. Though he has already proven he can easily lift Legolas up and out of the way, should the notion strike, he has yet to do so. He is waiting for Legolas to realize something. Context would suggest it is relevant to what they have been discussing, but Legolas is failing to see the connection—or, rather, what Gimli has deemed missing.

It takes a few moments of bemused staring for Gimli to kiss him and say softly, “Neither of us shall be comfortable without something to ease the way.”

 _“Oh.”_ Legolas sits up straighter as the implications of going without slot into place. With a wince at what he had inadvertently been suggesting, he says, “Yes, I suppose… yes. I can fetch something.” He slips from the cot and onto the floor, and stumbles both from how _Nendil_ sways beneath him and the leftover weakness in his knees, courtesy of his recent orgasm. Righting himself, he hastens to ask, “What should I fetch?”

Gimli’s smile is gentle, as though seeing Legolas wobble like a newborn fawn is more endearing than unbecoming. “An oil or liniment without perfume is ideal.”

“Right.” He turns to the stack of cabinets and drawers built into the long side of the cabin and mentally thumbs through _Nendil’s_ inventory. There is truly not much that fits that description, save for some cooking oil, or perhaps the grease he works into the wood of his bow to keep it supple. Neither feel like elegant solutions—but then, with an erection that bobs distractingly with his every step, and the knowledge of his husband’s saintly patience as he awaits his own release, right now any solution at all seems good enough.

Somewhat arbitrarily, he decides the grease is the less essential of the two and grabs the jar. He is accompanied by a new, shiver-inducing intent when he climbs over Gimli’s thighs this time. The anticipation of what shall come next has him equal parts shy and eager, but the kiss Gimli rewards him with is slow and sweet. He loses himself in the brush of facial hair and the way their tongues dance together, in the shared space of their bond and the emotions they so easily share, so much so that he does not notice what Gimli’s hands are doing until a thick, slippery finger prods inside of him.

When Legolas makes a gasping noise, Gimli pauses and pulls back with concern. “Too much already?”

Legolas shakes his head and presses a series of reassuring kisses to his husband’s cheeks and temples. “Nay, it is only… I have never—” When the finger inside him quirks experimentally, he shudders and lets out a small moan. He breathes Gimli’s name as he leans heavily upon the curved wall of the cabin. He thinks he expected this to feel like an invasion, but instead there is a primal satisfaction to this that he cannot quite describe. He did not realize he felt empty until he was being filled, and the idea of welcoming not just a prodding finger but the entirety of his husband makes his mouth water.

“Relax around me, Legolas,” Gimli says gently, petting his side. He is gazing upon Legolas as though enraptured, lips slightly parted and breath coming unevenly. “I know the instinct is to bear down, but relax.”

It takes a few tries. Legolas thought he knew his body well, but this experience is entirely novel, and he is finding his reactions are not precisely what he expects. The only saving grace is his husband’s seemingly limitless patience, and how inexcusably good it feels when Legolas manages to relax enough to allow him space to move.

“Yes, just like that.” Though his movements are carefully controlled, and Legolas knows this is hardly an exertion for him, Gimli is still panting and moaning as he works. His neglected erection twitches whenever Legolas experiments with grinding down on the finger within him—but again, he parries Legolas’ hand when he reaches for it. “I dinnae mind the anticipation,” he says huskily, leaving a wet kiss on Legolas’ shoulder, and then trailing down to his sternum. His free hand grips Legolas by the hips as they roll onto his finger; they both groan.

It is not until Legolas’ breath starts coming in increasingly desperate huffs that Gimli coats a second finger in the grease, and Legolas understands why when he feels the burn of slowly being _opened_. The sensation is an order of magnitude larger, somehow, though he knows that Gimli’s fingers are not drastically different sizes. For as much as he wants to feel his husband’s entire thickness inside him, he did not realize how ambitious that aspiration was until right now. Just this feels like more than his body should be able to accommodate. How is any amount of relaxation going to help?

“Easy,” his husband rumbles as he stiffens. Kisses pepper his neck and chest—and, when Legolas ducks his head closer, Gimli’s lips are tender and comforting upon his. “Easy. The second is always the biggest adjustment.”

“Do you think—is it even possible to…?” he pants, grunting and trying to resist the urge to bear down upon the fingers within him.

“Aye, it is.” Gimli kisses his cheek, his ear, his jaw. “You are doing wonderfully, and we shall take as long as you need, so long as you wish to continue. I know it can be intimidating.”

It can, and Legolas appreciates the acknowledgement, as well as the reassurance that this all does not have to be done in one night. Nevertheless, he grunts, “Keep going.”

“Then do what you can to relax, Legolas, there isnae a rush,” his husband soothes, caressing along the column of his spine and kneading the tense muscles in his lower back.

Though it takes much longer, Legolas does adjust. As he gradually relaxes around Gimli’s fingers, he is gradually rewarded with potent waves of pleasure. He did not realize such enjoyment could be found this deep within him, but as his spouse works him open it is found increasingly often. Soon he is moaning from the sleeked back and forth motions as well as how deep Gimli reaches with every slow pump of his wrist.

By comparison, the third finger is nothing. Legolas quickly learns that adjusting is a matter of technique, of harnessing his breathing and seeking the liquid pool of pleasure at the base of his spine, instead of focusing on the stretch—though, he discovers, there is something delectably sinful about that, as well.

All the while, Gimli is encouraging and affectionate. He gives no indication that he wants things to move along faster, or that he is bothered by the precome that is leaking steadily from the tip of his erection. As Legolas takes more and more of him, he murmurs admiration and advice, and responds readily to kisses both soft and urgent. His side of their bond is surging with devotion and ardor. Legolas has never felt so safe and cherished.

Gimli waits until Legolas is riding all three of his fingers with his head thrown back and loud, shuddering moans falling from his lips. Actually, he only stops when a particularly enthusiastic buck of Legolas’ hips sends _Nendil_ knocking against her berth and river water sloshing against the walls of the cabin, startling them both.

“I pray no one noticed that,” Legolas mutters, pressing his sweaty and warm face into the crook of his arm as he leans on the same wall the water is lapping against. At this point he is exceedingly comfortable with Gimli seeing him come undone, but the idea of any of his people taking notice of this is utterly mortifying.

“The dock is a fair ways off from the nearest home,” Gimli says, his voice full of sheepish laughter. That is true enough, but the range of elven hearing is impressive, and in this moment Legolas knows better than to permit himself to contemplate if their current distance is enough. With any luck, the occupants of the nearest home are deep in reverie.

Instead of engaging further with that potentially horrifying line of conversation, Legolas opts to kiss his husband hard, and buries himself in the delight of Gimli’s touch as well as the burn of his own need. Too long has he allowed the impressions of others to keep him from the home of his heart; he is not going to let that happen now.

 _“Mellon,_ please,” he breathes when they pull apart. There is an urgency beneath his skin, a drive to confirm that this beautiful soul belongs to him. The bond that pulses between them like a living thing is somehow not enough of a reassurance. This reminder that they are not the only two people left in the world transforms the desire to claim every aspect of his husband into a need he no longer knows how to deny.

“Aye, I think you are ready,” Gimli says in that delightfully gritty voice. He reaches for their improvised lubricant and hisses as he finally touches himself. Legolas cannot take his eyes away from the sight, enthralled by the slide of that thick cock inside of his partner’s slicked fist.

That is going to be inside of him.

Though he has not been empty long, Legolas can already feel himself aching to be filled again. He licks his lips at the very thought, and his own erection pulses between his thighs.

“Come here, then,” his husband rumbles, and Legolas eagerly complies.

It takes a bit of maneuvering before they find a position Legolas can reliably maintain without inadvertently crushing his partner’s hips. He is standing on one knee, with his other foot flat next to Gimli’s hip and his hands braced on the wall above Gimli’s silver head. It is not particularly graceful, but Legolas also does not have the cognition to devise something better right now—and, when he lowers himself onto that gloriously fat cock, he frankly no longer cares how graceful any of this looks.

“Oh, _Gimli,”_ he moans, sinking down until he is fully seated. Three fingers were a fair approximation of his husband’s girth, but not of his length. Legolas shudders as he is filled deeper than he was prepared for, but it is intimately satisfying in a way nothing else has been so far.

For his part, Gimli’s arms and thighs are quaking as he grips Legolas by the hips. His face is tense and restraint echoes from his side of their bond, which is concerning, but he stops Legolas when he tries to lift himself. “Just need a minute to adjust,” he mutters by way of explanation.

That is right. While Legolas has been getting filled this entire time, Gimli has been patiently denying himself. Of course he needs time to adjust.

Legolas makes himself as comfortable as this position allows and presses an apologetic kiss to his partner’s temple. “Take as long as you need.”

This makes his husband smile, genuinely softened, though it does not stop him from quipping, “Such a gentleman.”

“I learned from the best,” Legolas replies, though his attention is admittedly split between the banter and the urge to roll his hips. He resists, though the very thought of it has him biting back a moan. He is grateful when Gimli realizes this and pulls him in for a long, thorough kiss.

It seems Gimli needed this distraction, too, because when they separate, panting and somewhat dazed, he says hoarsely, “Alright, start moving.”

Legolas wastes no time after that. They both groan loudly at the first few rolls of his hips. Gimli’s cock slides without much effort, but the friction that remains is intoxicatingly intimate, and the sheer girth of him leaves no part of Legolas feeling empty.

Between raising his hips and bending the knee he is not standing on, Legolas is able to control how deep Gimli goes, as well as their pacing, though the latter is always slower than he craves. Aside from that, it is unspeakably good, and the rhythm he establishes leaves them both panting and whimpering one another’s names. Gimli yanks his head to the side so he can resume where he last left off with biting and licking, causing his skin to raise and a nearly unbearable liquid pleasure to race through his veins. It is all Legolas can do to keep himself aloft and moving. Each slide of his husband’s thick cock as he sinks onto it sends electricity skittering across their bond.

Legolas does not realize that _Nendil_ has started rocking with them, or how badly his legs are shaking, until Gimli stops him with hands on his hips. The relative stillness is dizzying, and it takes him a few tries to properly focus upon his husband’s face.

“Are you alright, _mellon?_ Am I crushing you?”

“Nay, nothing like that.” Gimli draws him in and kisses him softly. The change in mood from the frantic pace they had been enjoying is utterly disarming, which Legolas suspects is the point. “There is something I would like to try. Could you turn around?”

His first instinct is to say no because doing so would mean having to separate, but he quickly dismisses the instinct. The sloop is still swaying, so it is a little clumsy to oblige, but he eventually manages. Gimli instructs him to brace himself on the wall while he quickly coats his erection in a fresh layer of lubricant, and then helps Legolas balance and lower himself back onto it.

The new angle is so good Legolas whimpers, simply from that, but perhaps that is only because he is tender from how thoroughly he had been riding it earlier. Though he would swear that no part of him had been left untouched, Gimli’s cock is somehow bumping into new places now. “Ah—Gimli!”

“I have you,” comes the husky growl behind him, reverberating through his chest and making his stomach flip. His big, rough hands are stroking along Legolas’ legs. “You can move, Legolas—yes, just like that.” A powerful groan leaves him as Legolas pulls himself up and then sinks back down as deeply as he dares. “Once more?”

This time as Legolas lifts himself, Gimli’s massive hands cup the backs of his thighs and lift him higher, until Legolas’ feet have left the cot and only the tip of Gimli’s erection is inside of him. Legolas is not given time to adjust to this unexpected change before he is falling back onto it and being filled again. He cries out, and has only a second or two’s reprieve before he is lifted in the air and gravity brings him slamming back down onto his husband’s cock.

Their connection betrays that Gimli’s huffing breathing as coming from the sensation of these simulated thrusts, rather than the effort of creating them. He has the reflexes to prevent Legolas from putting undue pressure on his pelvis when he falls, and the brawn to maintain a tireless pace. Legolas is as secure in Gimli’s grip as he is helpless to resist the improvised pounding of his cock. He can scarcely keep himself upright, even with his hand braced on the wall.

He does not recognize the wanton noises coming out of him. For all the new experiences he has had this evening, these are in a league of their own. Nothing has ever felt so _good,_ not even the orgasm from earlier. His entire body trembles as that familiar ache builds at the base of his erection again, tension curling within him like a snake preparing to attack.

A particularly potent drop slams Gimli’s cock into a spot that breaks his voice mid-moan and has him seeing stars. It is as though a bucket of ice water has been dumped over his head. His body jerks as a second orgasm rips through him, and then there is one more powerful thrust before Gimli is shouting and clinging to him as he finally finds his own much-deserved release.

Legolas does not know how long it takes before his breathing finally levels out, or for his self-awareness to sluggishly drag itself up from where it had utterly collapsed in the heat of the moment. He is sore and quivering, and he has never felt more used up—or more sated. He objectively does not know whether this satisfaction is the result of obliterating a lifetime of celibacy or because the sex was that good, but the result remains.

 _“Mellon-nîn?”_ he says over his shoulder. His voice is hoarse.

Gimli’s huge hands are locked around his waist, and his face is pressed into Legolas’ back. He is quivering, and his side of their bond is also pleasantly exhausted. However, Legolas is also fully sitting on him at this point. He does not want this experience to be marred by another pinched nerve, but he cannot move until Gimli releases him.

“Beloved, can you hear me?”

There is a small grunt of acknowledgement. Faintly, Legolas hears a musing, “Never called me that before.”

“That is true,” he admits. “Do you mind it?”

“You know full well I love it.” Gimli still has not lifted his head, or indeed moved at all, but this time his response is clearer. It is also corroborated by the tender joy he can feel through their connection.

Legolas smiles to himself as warmth oozes down his limbs, and traces the powerful fingers hooked together around his abdomen. After everything they have just done, it is touching that something as small as an additional endearment garners a reaction at all. “Do you need to stay like this a while longer?”

There is a pause, and then his beloved’s hands make a lingering retreat. They both hiss and groan as Legolas gingerly climbs from his lap, and Legolas becomes acutely aware of a sluggish trail tickling down the inside of his thigh. He hastily scoops up the article of clothing he gave Gimli to clean himself with earlier—his own leggings, as it turns out—and wipes himself off before he leaves tracks around the cabin. His breath catches as the fabric rubs against the tender flesh between his legs, but it is not… altogether terrible. The sensitivity serves as a reminder, much like the marriage braid that has just slipped back over his shoulder, or the steady presence in the corner of his mind.

He belongs to someone. He is married.

If Gimli is surprised when Legolas drops the leggings and twists around to kiss him thoroughly, then Legolas cannot feel it. Rather, he smiles into Legolas’ lips, and reaches up to give his marriage braid an affectionate tug. “Aye, _âzyungelê,”_ he whispers. “It is still real.”

When Gimli tugs him to lay down, Legolas follows readily. They untangle the blanket he had been leaning against and crowd their heads together on the cot’s single pillow. Objectively, the cot is way too small for two people, but Legolas finds a way to mold himself around Gimli until they both fit, even if it means that neither of them can move without Legolas tumbling to the floor. Somehow, despite everything they have already faced together, this feels like as much of a milestone as marriage and sex. His hands are trembling from more than simply exhaustion, and he cannot help nuzzling into the crown of Gimli’s silver head.

Legolas thinks this feels significant because it marks the beginnings of a domesticity their love has never known. The last time they came anywhere close was in ’35, when he wintered in Aglarond—but even then, all that had amounted to was a single evening in which Gimli napped in Legolas’ bed while he worked nearby, and a one-off conversation about marriage customs that neither of them expected to amount to anything.

Now they are laying together, married. Legolas wonders if knowing this was in their future would have given either of them peace.

Gimli’s fingers curl around his and hold on firmly, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I am only now remembering that we left the tools scattered across the deck to copulate like a pair of randy adolescents.”

Out of everything he expected to hear, that was _not_ it. Legolas bursts into laughter. “If it bothers you so, beloved, I can retrieve them and put them nicely away—but only as a special favor to you on your wedding day.”

He grins at his husband’s superficial grumbling. The hand on his tightens. “You arnae going anywhere,” he says stoutly. “I was simply making an observation.”

Legolas’ first instinct is to quip in reply, but then a particularly pronounced wave of water sends _Nendil_ gently swaying. The motion calls his attention to how, in a sense, he truly is not going anywhere. On the morrow he will be sailing out on the tide, but he shall not be alone. Gimli shall be with him; his _husband_ shall be with him. He will not be going anywhere without Gimli again.

Somehow, the knowledge has not fully sunk in until this moment.

“You are right, I am not going anywhere,” he murmurs, curling closer and squeezing the hand in his. “Not when I am finally home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> Âzyungelê = Khuzdul = my love of all loves. I would argue that, in certain contexts, this could be more colloquially translated as "love of my life."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who need a TL;DR from last chapter: They got elf-married and this created a new, intense layer of their marriage bond. Sensing the other's emotions/reactions is even more potent and clear now, and that's kind of overwhelming but it also helps them grow closer. There was also some character development about sex-related insecurities but they got through that, too. Legolas experiments with calling Gimli 'beloved' and he's into it.
> 
> This chapter absolutely, 100% kicked my ass. Hopefully it doesn't read that way? At any rate, thank you all for joining me for this story! I love you all.
> 
> Want to know what happens to these two next? Check out the next fic in this series, What Song Can Fell the Mountain! Just uploaded the first chapter today, and (since it is fully written) it shall be updated twice a week until we done, son!

Yellow light stretches into the cabin through the open door, and the boat rocks gently with a morning tide they have certainly missed. If the brightness is indicative of anything, then they still have a chance to catch the midday tide; that shall have to be good enough.

Gimli shifts, anticipating that Legolas shall stir with him. The elf does not move from where he has curled himself around Gimli, long lean limbs tucked opportunistically into whatever free space Gimli's bulk has afforded them. He breathes softly, eyes half-lidded instead of wide and staring. Even now, Gimli is not knowledgeable enough about the strange phenomena that passes for elven rest to parse whether this is a sign of exhaustion, or if it is an indication Legolas feels safe enough to delve deeper into unconsciousness than he normally might. He might also be looking too far into this, because it might not mean anything at all. For as long as they have known each other, and as close as they are, there is still so much Gimli does not know.

Yet, he corrects himself as he watches his peacefully sleeping spouse. He does not know _yet,_ but that shall soon change. Every gentle exhalation delivers a reassuring ripple of peacefulness through the reinforced tendrils of their bond. There is no breaking something like this, no renegotiating two layers of soul-binding connection once they have been cemented. He and Legolas have the right to learn whatever they would like about one another, and there is not a damned thing anyone else can say or do to change that.

And, hopefully, in the Undying Lands, they shall be able to make good on the opportunity. It is very easy to feel hopeful when they are laying together like this, entangled in both body and soul.

Memories of the night before flash through Gimli's mind, vivid and fresh. They have certainly made headway in learning of one another, and in more than the purely physical sense. Gimli traces the smooth skin of his husband's cheek, and he is so full of joy and warmth that his fingers quiver. Legolas does not react at all. He presses a kiss to that dear forehead. Nothing happens.

When Gimli lifts one long arm so he may duck under it, Legolas' limb is heavy and limp. He does not seem to feel Gimli gingerly clambering from the cot, though the mattress creaks and _Nendil_ rocks. His fair face is smeared over his arm, covered in a tangled mess of dark gold and sun-brightened yellow hair. His head is also at the most awkward angle, and Gimli hastens to move the single pillow under it, so he does not develop a crick in his neck. His spouse remains dead to the world throughout. Gimli does not think elves snore, but if it were possible Legolas certainly would be right now.

Frankly, Gimli is impressed. If he had jostled the elf this much while they were in the Fellowship, he would have immediately snapped to wakefulness.

His intent is to dress and clean up the tools they left out last night, but instead he pauses, drinking in the sight before him. He has never seen anything more beautiful, or more endearing. His patient, wonderful partner. He is the luckiest soul in Middle-Earth, to have found love in someone like this.

His love, and his husband. If not for the irrevocable presence in the corner of his mind, or the spiritual link between them, Gimli might have questioned how real this truly is. He is not sure he will ever stop, because he truthfully cannot fathom there being a time where this will feel normal enough to take for granted.

Since spending the night on _Nendil_ had not been their initial plan, Gimli’s last few possessions are still in his guest house, and Legolas’ are still in his rooms of the Great House.

Well, if they are going to leave on the midday tide, they had best collect everything sooner rather than later—and, since it seems Legolas shall not be conscious any time soon, Gimli supposes the task shall fall to him.

How domestic. Who would have thought the concept could bring him such delight?

His clothes are conspicuously wrinkled when he dons them again, but as his clothing is all in the guest house there is nothing for it. At least they are still wearable; Gimli cannot say the same for his husband’s leggings. After he has collected the tools they used to install the bronze inset to the cabin door and put them away, Gimli scrubs the dried semen off in the river and pinches the leggings in one of the drawers to hang dry. They will not be ready to wear again in time to sail out, but they will be eventually.

Though it will not be a long trip, Gimli still takes a moment to gaze upon his spouse before going to shore. Legolas slumbers on, oblivious. Feeling as though a hearth has been lit inside his chest, warm and good, Gimli smiles and reaches out to brush a wisp of blonde hair from his temple.

No, he cannot imagine there ever being a time he shall take this for granted.

After _Nendil’s_ constant swaying, dry land is utterly jarring. Gimli’s first few steps are too forceful, expectant of a rolling surface and finding only a solid, unyielding plane. His gait evens out as his joints warm up and his body adjusts to the change. By the time he reaches the guest house he has been staying in for the last few months, he is fully reacclimated.

He has also needed to ignore several nonplussed looks from passersby. At this point it is common knowledge that Gimli is sailing with Legolas, but those looks prove that the reason why is not as obvious as he thought. There is no point in shattering anyone’s perceptions now, of course, not when he and Legolas will be gone in a scant few hours. He is surprised, though. Does it say more about those passersby and their powers of observation, or what he considers conspicuous?

Gimli’s clothes are already packed in a bulging canvas bag. He changes into a fresh outfit and does what he can to fix the abominable mess of his curls without his hair oils (they are all already on _Nendil)_ before easily swinging the bag over his shoulder.

It is not until he casts one last look around the guest house that the fact he is _leaving_ truly hits him. These are his last few hours on Middle-Earth. He shall never see these walls again, never walk these streets, never gaze upon the splendor of the Rosewood or the glittering caves of Aglarond.

Funny, how this never felt final until now.

There is no other choice Gimli would make. Even now, he can feel Legolas’ serenity across their bond, that gentle ebb and flow like waves across a shoreline. He would go anywhere, if it meant he could stay by his husband’s side, and that does not feel like a sacrifice. Even if it dooms his soul to death without the Halls of Mahal, or eternal life as an old dwarf, he will not regret this.

At the same time, Gimli knows he is going to miss Middle-Earth. He has always known this, but it is not until this moment that he realizes just how _much._

So it is that he closes the guest house one last time and relishes each tromping stride to the Great House. He is thankful for the sun on his face and shoulders, and he smiles to see the impeccable elven gardens lining his path.

Legolas’ quarters are similarly spartan now, with everything that has not been loaded onto _Nendil_ either given away, composted, or packed into a tidy canvas bag much like Gimli’s own. The desk is clear, and the shelves are empty. Though Gimli rarely spent time in Legolas’ quarters, he cannot help but look at the rooms as a blank slate, awaiting the influence of their new master’s personality.

He does not hear anyone coming, but he has spent long enough in an elven settlement not to be startled by the voice behind him. “Did it work?”

It is Cellimben. He might have guessed—these are her rooms now, and the Great House itself her office as the new Lady of Ithilien.

It is also not surprising that she is asking this. If Legolas did not tell her himself what they had planned to attempt last night, then Cellimben has enough context to put the pieces together on her own.

“Yes,” Gimli says, hefting Legolas’ bag over his other shoulder. He cannot help the immense pride in his voice and body language.

The Lady of Ithilien lets out a cry of delight. “Then congratulations are in order! Are you headed back to the boat now?”

“I am, aye.” He pauses, uncertain of how relevant the information might be, but Cellimben seems to be building up to something, so he adds, “I imagine Legolas should be awake by then.”

For the briefest of moments, she is caught between amusement and mischief. She swiftly schools her expression to one of supportive gladness as she nods. “I shall meet you there, then. There is something I must retrieve—do not leave without a proper farewell.”

“Of course not,” Gimli says. There was a formal farewell celebration two days ago, but Legolas and Cellimben are close, and he would never shortchange his husband a final goodbye to an old friend.

Cellimben is already gone, moving with the youthful swiftness of the elves. Gimli does not attempt to analyze where she is going or what she could be retrieving. Like as not, it is something to represent her friendship with Legolas.

The rest of Gimli’s journey back to _Nendil_ is uneventful. His tidied appearance erases the need for curious and perplexed looks, and instead he makes idle conversation as he walks. Aye, they are leaving today, Legolas is making the final preparations on the boat now, should be able to head out with the next tide. Aye, this is the last of their things, but thank you for offering to help.

By the time he reaches _Nendil_ again, Legolas is indeed conscious. Gimli senses it through their bond before he ascends the ramp onto the sloop, and is not surprised to find his spouse sitting up in the cot with the blanket pooled around his lean hips, gazing sheepishly upon his dripping leggings.

For a moment Gimli is distracted by the memories of their elven wedding, how those hips felt in his grip, the sounds he could inspire, how it felt inside—

He mentally shakes the thoughts away. There is not enough time for such distractions right now, not with Cellimben due to arrive any moment. Honestly, he does not know why she is not already here when she moves so much faster than he.

Legolas’ smile is more resplendent than the purest diamond. “Good morning, _mellon-nîn.”_ His gaze moves to the canvas bags as Gimli deposits them onto the deck, and sheepishness enters his demeanor once more. “I hoped that was where you had gone.”

“I figured your final hours on Middle-Earth should be dignified,” Gimli quips.

This earns a snort of laughter. Legolas swings his long legs over the side of the cot and stands with less grace than an elf might prefer, though Gimli cannot tell if it is from lingering soreness or because of the way the boat moves.

 _Nendil’s_ cabin is small. There is enough room for the two of them to stand and maneuver, but only barely. When Gimli shuffles out of the way to give Legolas access to the rest of his clothes, they brush against one another. The action somehow seems to highlight the drastic difference in their states of dress, and the fact this is the first time their union has seen the light of day. For as much as they had been kissing and exploring one another in the weeks leading up to their marriage, and for everything they did last night, this is somehow more intimate—perhaps because it is happening without a haze of lust surrounding them?

Is Gimli being rude? Should he go?

They stare at one another, stymied and a little awkward. They never discussed what would be acceptable behavior once they were married; it had never occurred to them that there might be a notable distinction. Their relationship has undergone a massive transformation; it is not a regrettable alteration—far from it—but it is still _change_ , and all change takes getting used to.

It is difficult to keep himself from eagerly drinking in the sight of his husband, or to keep his mind from replaying the most significant moments from the night before—Legolas’ soul swirling around his own, the way Legolas’ mouth opened as he lost himself in Gimli’s hand, how he rode Gimli’s fingers, how his breath hitched when Gimli was fully seated inside him for the first time. So many things Gimli has not had enough of, so many new things to adjust to. He is not a young dwarf, and this was not his first sexual experience, but it might as well be with his current fixation.

It was the first time he had fully acted on his feelings for his One. That, as it turns out, is incredibly potent.

He is never going to get over how ineffably beautiful Legolas is, is he?

 _“Mellon?”_ The word is spoken softly, layered with half a dozen unspoken queries. Gimli cannot parse them all, even with the assistance of their bond, but the gist is that his spouse is wondering if Gimli is upset, and if there is any specific cause.

For as well as they know one another, and as far as they have come, this is only the beginning. There is still so much he would like to do, to ask, to say. It is not overwhelming, it is _exciting._ The only problem is choosing where to begin.

Well, he supposes successfully navigating this conversation and the new developments it represents would be a logical first step.

Legolas is too tall for Gimli to initiate a kiss while they are both standing, but his marriage braid is within easy reach. Gimli hears the elf’s breath catch in his throat as he touches it, tracing along the intricate (if currently sleep-mussed) design, admiring the way gold and bronze dance in and out of the weave. When Gimli gives the braid a small tug, Legolas bends down to accept his lips with a shy smile.

“I didnae expect things to feel so different,” Gimli admits, tracing his fingers down one smooth cheek. It feels warmer than it should; the emotion on the other side of their bond betrays the heat as overwhelming affection more than self-consciousness.

Legolas hums in agreement, even as he leans into Gimli’s hand. “And yet it is a difference I relish,” he says. “There is nothing I would trade it for.”

“Nothing at all,” Gimli concurs. He kisses his husband one more time before allowing him to stand tall again. Though nothing has fundamentally happened, the awkwardness between them is gone. This outward confirmation that they are both in the same headspace is deeply reassuring, somehow. It makes their mutual uncertainty something to bond over, an event that shall only make their relationship stronger.

“Please tell me you are both still decent.”

They startle at the sound of Cellimben’s teasing call. Legolas immediately snaps into motion, throwing on the first fresh tunic and leggings his hands touch. He is moving quickly, but Gimli works to stall the knowingly amused Lady of Ithilien by ascending the short flight of steps to the deck and calling a rejoinder, “I know Silvans hate open water, but we arnae going anywhere just yet. The boat willnae bite you.”

“So you say,” she retorts, but the challenge has been set. Cellimben carefully picks her way up the ramp and onto the bobbing sloop, just in time for Legolas to reveal himself. His marriage braid is still a bit frazzled, but otherwise he looks as composed and alert as though he has been awake for hours.

His friend lets out a cry of surprise when he hugs her, though it is clearly more for the way the sloop rocks in response to the sudden movement than from the embrace itself.

“He abdicates his position and immediately loses every trace of decorum.” Cellimben’s tone is gruff enough, but the effect of her grumbling is ruined by her smile.

“As a member of the citizenry, it is my right,” Legolas says primly.

That is when Gimli notices the small crowd that has gathered on shore. Legolas follows his gaze, and something in his demeanor softens. “Cellimben, did you gather all of these people?”

“Not all of them,” she says. “Some have come because Gimli mentioned you would be pushing off soon.”

Despite the formal event, a small handful of friends and acquaintances have assembled to give them a final farewell. After a lifetime of hiding how they really feel about one another, even this tiny gathering—less than five individuals, all told—feels enormous.

“But before that, this is for you.” Cellimben produces a fist-sized earthenware jar and pushes it into Legolas’ hand. “With all affection and congratulations for your new marital state.”

At first Legolas is bemused, but then he cracks the lid of the jar open and stiffens in mortification. _“Cellimben!”_

Cellimben is unapologetic. “Do you not need it, then?”

“That is not—” Splotches of color are forming on Legolas’ cheeks as he cuts himself off and informs her, “I am not thanking you for this.”

“And yet you are not handing it back. I consider that gratitude enough.”

It is this response which gives Gimli the final clue he needs about this mysterious gift. He bursts into hearty laughter and motions for Legolas to hand him the jar of proper lubricant so he can stow it below deck. He cannot tell if it is a prank or a sincere gesture, but either way the humor in it is positively dwarven, and he cannot help chortling as he goes.

When he returns a few moments later, Legolas and Cellimben have relocated to solid ground. His husband is still a little pink in the cheeks, but he is doing an admirable job of ignoring it as he exchanges final farewells to the elves he used to lead.

Mírn is also here, to Gimli’s surprise. Their gaze falls to the marriage braid now draped over his shoulder, and they offer a smile that is as congratulatory as it is sad.

“I know I speak for all the _khazâd_ in Aglarond when I say you shall be missed, Gimli son of Glóin,” they say as they hug him. “Mahal bless you and your husband in your travels.”

Hearing their union acknowledged aloud by someone else is powerful. Gimli has to keep himself from staggering back from the weight of it—or, rather, the sudden removal of the fear they were somehow not legitimate enough to be called such. This simple recognition was a gift he did not realize he needed.

“Aye, and the same to you and yours here on Middle-Earth,” says Gimli, gripping the other dwarf’s shoulder to hide his trembling fingers. “I cannae thank you enough for your support, Mírn.”

He means that last more than the other could ever know.

But then, perhaps the master stonemason knows after all. When they nod, their smile is more joyful and less mixed. “Happy to offer it, my friend.”

Gimli and Legolas do not rush through their final conversations with their friends. There is no stopping the tide, however, and they must leave with it. With a few last waves and jokes, they unfurl _Nendil’s_ main sail. The canvas immediately fills with wind, and Gimli’s stomach lurches as the sailing lessons from the last few weeks become fully relevant.

This is it.

The little group on the berth disperses as _Nendil_ sails down the River Anduin. When the last of them disappears from sight, Gimli and Legolas exchange a look.

It took a lifetime of longing, and weeks of uncertainty, but they are here together now, in every sense of the word. Whatever comes next, they shall face it side by side, and never be torn apart.

His husband smiles and reaches for his hand; they look towards their new adventure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Footnotes and Translations
> 
> Nendil = Sindarin = water friend.
> 
> Mellon, mellon-nîn = Sindarin = friend, my friend respectively
> 
> Khazâd = Khuzdul = A gender-neutral term for a dwarf or dwarves. There is some difference between Khazâd and Khazad, but because I am not a linguist or have no patience to figure out what a compositive or definite noun is, we’re going broad-stroke and applying the accent to everything. The capitalized version of this denotes a cultural name, which is simply “The Dwarves”.
> 
> The River Anduin is the longest and largest river in Middle-Earth. It leads to the ocean which is now they can sail Nendil into the sunset.


End file.
